Stone Circle countdown to doomsday

The tree hanging over her was naked so when a winter breeze sighed through it, the branches wrattled. The sound of it was like hollow wind-chimes, or perhaps closer in nature to the bones that clattered about inside of her. Sometimes she felt her age. It was like waking up and noticing a creaking floorboard in an otherwise pristine house - this vessel of her's creaked and groaned at the best of times and she, once so virile and alluring, loathed the thought of having a limit (let alone reaching one). But, soon, she would be nothing but a pile of bones. Perhaps she'd freeze this winter and be lost to the world, but left perfect and pristine until the spring melt. That was a better thought; it brought a smile to her sharp face despite the morbidity of it. If Phyllis was anything, she was an idealist.

She took a deep breath as the cold swept over her. The warm scent of another wolf came with it, and she lazily - coquettish, some might call it - turned her inconsistent attention to the approaching wolf. The stranger was young and fit, with a masculine swagger that Phyllis thought was, ultimately, quite ugly. But they had a sharp face and a pleasing array of colors - not as envious as her own coat in its prime, of course. Their voice was decidedly more feminine than their body. Phyllis' pointed ears shifted to show her eagerness to listen, and smiled. Oh, I am? That is... I'm sorry, how rude of me.

She took on the soft and surprised look of a blundering elder, for that's what she had become. Best to use the easy assumptions to her own benefit. I was just admiring those strange trees over yonder, she motions with a small lift of her nose towards the distant spires of rock and then fixes her pale gaze on the young woman. Do you live here, dear? It is very beautiful.