Silverlight Terrace her collars of the moonshine's watery beams

Indeed. The night is good to women like them, so dark of pelt, especially when there is no snow upon the ground to give away their shadowy figures. Her ears flick briefly at the wording the other uses—'not quite'—and Megara wonders if this is not the first time she has seen a Melonii.

But which of them has she met, before?

Much the same as you, she responds, smiling. I'm a wanderer by nature; if I ever spend a day off the road, I may be dead. A small chuckle escapes her, at that, before the mirth over her face is replaced once more by curiosity. My name is Meldresi Melonii, she continues, continuing to use her sister's name—for whatever it's worth. This woman looks old enough to have perhaps known the priestess, so maybe. . .

I met some of your Moonspear wolves the other day, Megara adds. The big dark girl. . .she must be yours. She has much the look of you, in body and spirit.