Haunted Wood red dot

The sandwoman stilled, her grooming forgotten as the very shadow itself seemed to take shape before her. Hemera's plum gaze lifted from beneath dark lashes, meeting the amber glow that pierced through the dim light. Her breath hitched, though not out of fear; no, it was something far more ancient that stirred within her chest: awe.
When he stepped into the light, her eyes traced the scars that marred his throat, an old wound that stole the voice from him. And yet, Hemera needed no words to understand a soul. Slowly, she tilted her head, blinking languidly, a soft and knowing gesture. With graceful steps, she closed the distance between them, raising a delicate paw toward his throat, though she did not dare make contact.
„The Lord has taken your voice,” she murmured, her tone a mere breath against the cold spring air that brushed through her sand-painted fur. A shiver ran along her spine, though whether from the chill or the strange pull she felt toward this wraith of a man, she could not say.
And so, Hemera lingered; for the Lord does not place souls upon one's path without reason.