The edge of her blade had shifted to the ready on pure instinct; feet spread shoulder length apart, weight moving to the top of her toes, eyes sharp as she readied for combat. But the glowing eyes were built from gnarled bark, a tree brought to life by hope and wishes. Samaire’s blade lowered, her lips parting, eyes widening in wonder. It had to be a nymph; its features were different than those of the Cathan woods, but the trees back home had been aspen and ash. 

It held her manthing’s chain. Samaire’s mouth snapped shut, her fingers tightening about her lowered sword. She refrained from raising the weapon; for the moment.

[i]Sal shuor…Ivenna?[/i]

The voice echoed throughout the grove, accompanied by the scent of fresh earth, the familiar tang of feral magic. Samaire swallowed. 

“<We need warm>,” Samaire’s tongue formed the words clumsily after a long moment of recall. It had been so many years since she had spoken with the wilds. “<Mean harm none. We leave if want you>.”