Larksong Grotto avec vous

it had not been smart of her to wander so far without having informed anyone. she knew this. yet here she was anyway.
the grotto sings with the silence of winter soon to come. the grass is flaxen; the trees, dead. there is no one around for miles.
and there is no sign of the children.

Descending into the grotto with the spoils of her latest venture clutched in her jaws, Nirali hardly expected company. She didn't notice the woman at all until she'd reached the bottom of the haphazard staircase, uncharacteristically oblivious to her surroundings for the moment. The thief was frustrated.

Stealing meals was fine. It was easy. Basic. But she wanted something more. It had been some time since she'd worked on commission, but maybe —

Shit. She had company. Nirali promptly dropped the weasel she was holding, but recovered just in time to fumble it through the air and finally, clumsily, snatch it back before it hit the ground. Her ears went flat. Just her luck — she finally ran into a hot chick and that was her first impression.

Well, too late now. She trotted to the water's edge and placed the weasel deliberately at her own paws, glancing at the woman as if none of that had just happened. 'Sup. She was cool, right? She was so cool.

there is a voice and the smell of meat. coraline bristles indignantly, eyes of wary seaglass scanning the vast expanse until she lands upon a large woman. wolf? unwolf? not-wolf, not-not-wolf. she cannot quite tell what she is looking at.
'sup? she repeats, the uncertainty wavering as she looks now at the prey placed coolly at the strange vagabond's feet. you mean to ask me how i be, mon cheri?