Fairspell Meadow bleak midwinter

upon closer inspection, she is dipped in a wash of nightshadows; a slyph of a thing, the scents of many — a pack — lingering upon her pelage.

he is unfamiliar with all of them, which spurns the unanswered question in his mind: how much of these wilds have changed?

already, he knew that he was not the same lostboy that had taken off on a fool's adventure so many years ago.

hello, sullivan rumbles in return.