Deepwood Weald Black-eyed Susan

GAY PEOPLE

Wren was not alone. She never really was, she'd begun to learn.
And as she traverses the weald, she's quick to figure out who exactly it is that lingers. A woman, soft and painted in shimmering gold, perhaps a little younger. Curious eyes are staring back at her, as if the stranger was hoping Wren would make the first move.
Oh, hi, is her greeting, a raspy quality to it as she draws closer. She mirrors her in unspoken word, a loose gait and a tail that hangs low. are you, um, lost or somethin'? 
Something about her feels familiar, yet she cannot place exactly what it is. Nostrils flare and scent is explored. A woman of brine and oakmoss, but there is a trace of musky-sweet pine that reminds her of home. She doesn't mention it, but an eyebrow is quirked. Should I know who you are?