Whitebark Stream food nor memory

It was like a hare and a tree at an impasse. The tree was rooted - unmoving, unwavering. The hare, flighty, agile - able to dance in burrows and hop straight on. A simple scamper by and there would've been no issue. Yet, as the two stood, Matasvintha couldn't help to trace the other's features, finding a pleasant sight in pale colors, like oats and golden grasses, coiled in the frosty clutches of the early spring. The scent on the wind spoke of something like discomfort, and the words, though they rang like bells, cut sharp, sharper beyond its natural accent.

She didn't speak this strange lady's tongue, and that, was a disappointment. Even yet, Matas did not budge, blinking between long pauses, letting the whispering of the birch and aspen trees rustle around them. She tilted her head, a motion of confusion. Still, she was not without wit, and she merely swept herself aside, neatly turning, — an offering in the way now unhindered.

She did not budge a step more. The tree leaning aside for the hare to trek on, but no more. Matasvintha waited. Orange eyes caught on the fair stranger, unwilling to dart away for a moment. She did not speak. There was a definite expectation, and each moment that the other did not walk forward, was another moment that Matasvintha expected the forest to start dragging her in, to join their ranks of stillness. It would do no good to startle the hare. She was to be patient.