Phoenix Maplewood The wind and I, we speak the same.

Down through the valley the woman marched, taking her time to seek the best route across the snow or around the obstacles of fallen trees and criss crossing scents she did not recognize. 

She was careful; soon would be her own time of burning - her first since the loss of her husband - and the last thing on her mind was family. Without a home to fall back on, she was adrift.

Silanga had never been so far from the village. It was a village no more, she reminded herself - her heart heavy, as she looked with great apprehension across the shadows of the forest floor.

Lysandar departed the glacier for the southern woods. These, too, bore the unmistakeable stain of red. And these too, left him airy and light footed. Like he might almost float away, even though their canopies boughed around him. Maybe he could fly — but he could, would he want to? The gold bloods ran on feathered feet, and they laughed. If he flew, would he laugh or throw up? Ha! Yeah, throw up. That was more likely.

The shadow of a stranger grounded him. Silvered, and beginning to line with age. Her eyes, that same hue of red. The colour followed him wherever he turned.

— but he would not think on this today.

A low chuff and a slow wave of his tail. The ruddy boy still did not know what kind of people these Wilds held — though he had heard their rumours.

There was a boy in the woods with her. A boy - he was a man, probably, but Silanga couldn't tell the ages of people that well these days. He came upon her suddenly enough to warrant the raising of her neck furs, but she did not flee; she was an accomplished hunter to her people and -- well, was, once. Whatever strength she felt (in numbers or ability) didn't really matter now.

His chuff was friendly enough. He did not charge for her, he did not bare her teeth. She gave an almost timid glance and huffed a small sound, welcoming him, as if she had any right to do so.