Fox's Glade over the rocky cliffs that you leave to peer over and not forget what feet are

a wild-furred dryad in the distance, willowy and wanderfooted like an earthbound spirit of the wood. zephyr feels sunset-gold eyes on him, and halts, instantly taken with the pretty earthen boy staring from afar. he meets the stare, head canting slightly. a single step forward, and then he speaks. hello, he calls, uncertain what he might expect from the meeting. it seems not every wolf falls under the spell of heat-scent the way wintersbane had, but the wraith has yet to find any outward indication that might tell him whether to expect one or the other. perhaps in time, he will.