Porcupine Ridge a magical people

A call sounds in the descending dark which opposed the gloom of the evening in every way: a bright, welcoming, feminine voice. He turns his attention in the direction of the voice and twitches an ear, but he does not hear anything else, and instead spots the gilded figure of a woman approaching. She looked to be fashioned of the dawn itself.

As she came closer, Scintilla did his best to keep his wits sharp. He studied her with quick glances, attentive to the long shadows of the trees, and his nostrils flaring as he took in the scent of her—and that scent, it was not singular. She had companions somewhere, he'd discerned. Did they wait in the shadows? He could not know for sure, but the likelihood of someone like this who gave off such warmth and welcome, and somehow imbued the air with softness, so he was put at-ease enough to lessen his guard.

The man cleared his throat, murmuring a greeting of, Hello, which could only be described as shy. He did not move closer, but neither did he flee. If anything, he was conflicted about what to do next. His eyes averted for a second as he looked at his feet, and then—as if remembering how conversations were meant to work—and added, ...am I, ah, intruding?