Snow danced outside of the den and Sidhe danced along with it. Her first winter had been something to look forward to, the only season she had yet to experience. Come spring, she'd celebrate the completion of her first year-long cycle - but it was winter that was the most foreign and new of all seasons. It rained flakes of cold, and the sun sat low in the sky; at night, hues of green raced across the sky. Animals and trees alike went to sleep for the season but not Sidhe, never her. She danced with the snow and spent her nights upon her back gazing up at the racing-lights, her mornings observing the way the low-sitting sun illuminated the mist and sleet of the morning.

From the borders, she had heard a call. She had been sprawled on her back once more, paws dangling above her as she watched the grey clouds shift about, but the call was intriguing enough to have given her pause. Then, she rolled up and onto her paws, unbothered by the snow that still clung to her fur and slowly, she began to drift like the clouds towards the borders. There had been something about the emptiness in the call that fascinated the young girl - it summoned, but it did not summon a somebody. It called out, but it had not said why or for who. It was a strangely empty thing, and it had made Sidhe's skin prickle with gooseskin.

It had not taken her all too long to arrive, or rather, to slip out from the snow and mist to reveal herself to the stranger-wolf. He was a stranger-wolf, but not entirely, at least not after Sidhe took a moment of silence to herself to look over him. Her head slowly tilted, but the corners of her mouth rose into a small, delicate smile. His eyes gave him away - yes, her mother had mentioned him several times. Sidhe could not recall his name, but she knew his eyes, recognized the tales of his night-fur mixed with the scarlet of blood. And the white. White like snow, like dove wings, like spring clouds. "Hello to you, stranger-wolf," she called out as she began to approach once more, her steps as light as a feather. Where her mother swayed and twitched, Sidhe drifted and floated, more Wraith than Beltane in such ways. "Though you are not so strange to the moors, are you? Mm, I think they know your name. They greet you too." She stopped short of him, only a few feet away, as she bowed her head twice in greeting - a greeting from her, and a greeting from Iromar itself.

Her eyes rose to his then. Where Aspis' were intense, hers were pale, half-blind in appearance, and soft like petals. She swam through his gaze for a moment in silence, her mouth still adorning her sweet grin before her head swayed and moved to a tilt. "You called for nobody," she said, "but I came. Am I the wrong one?" Maybe he had called for somebody - maybe she simply had not known the name, the taste of their essence. He might have been calling for ghosts, after all, and Sidhe did not speak with the ghosts of Iromar. Not truly, not like her mother.