Shadowwyn Moor Clair de Lune, L. 32

i'm so sorry i dropped the ball on this SOBS

she is certainly, most definitely not alone here.
for a good long moment, she thinks it's the songbirds singing and wonders if she really is starting to lose it. birds don't sound like that, do they? birds can't speak. her hackles ruffle in a display of her rising anxiety as she slowly thunders onward, head dipped low so that she may peer through the undergrowth.
it's there that she sees — her? him? them? — she cannot quite tell. a wolven silhouette, scent shrouded in everything and nothing at the same time. it's that one who sings. she watches for a time, suspicious of their proximity to riverclan's land, but painfully curious and oddly soothed by the warmth of the vocals. swiftcurrent? kvarsheim, maybe? neither option sounded particularly pleasant to her.
she doesn't wish to startle as she approaches, making sure her footsteps are as noisy as possible; a warning to the stranger that they are the one who will drive her next actions.