She is alone. Alone in the chill and away from all known and understood. It is a world of alien tongues and even more alien traditions. She has lingered by brooks and streams and come to ponds and lakes. She lives now on the island in the center of one great lake.

Peaceful, though, she remains. Like the glass of an utterly still pool, she is only a reflection of what she sees, a mirror of the highest caliber. Has evaded notice, apparently not so wonderful in color to these strangers as she was to her own pack.

But one does notice, she sees. One does pick her out and call to her.

His first word is familiar. Senketsu. Fresh Blood.

It makes her start, startled by the familiar word and the meaning equally. She takes a couple steps back, ears to the side. Then he looks down at the water and it makes her curious what sort of creature threatens and then muses over the water at his feet. At least, she thinks, he is musing.

When he looks up again, though her head is low she is less looking like she might flee. It is foolish to hear words not know that words can have meanings beyond first impressions. Are haiku not precisely proof that there are multiple uses for the the spoken word? His eyes twinkle, looking at her with no outward signs of aggression or malevolence.

She is too young to think ill of strangers strongly, or to doubt the evidence of her eyes.

It strikes her too, that it is a male. That this is one of a good many males she had witnessed to that point. Males, unconsumed and not at all a part of living sisters. It is a potential that she is keen on, meeting such a one when it is at least clear enough to her that he means no harm.

She steps, therefore, forward again and advances into the shallow stream between them. Water, cold or no, is her friend and favorite of nature’s allies. It gives her no pains to feel it’s wintry bite on her lower limbs as she walks slowly towards him. "Anata no namae wa Senketsu nandesuka?"