Without any reason for haste, the silver creature lingers among night-blooming flowers and the pale, far-off light of the sleeping heavens. Something about starlight breathes peace into his soul; perhaps he remembers an old voice telling him night was the only safe time. Perhaps it is merely that memory of company, so fleeting and so worn with age, he treasures beyond the stories and the shards of wisdom.

        His thoughts curl, restive, and he thinks – a little bitterly – the stars are a poor substitute for the warm, fragile, terrible twisting of live flesh. When a noise across the meadow stirs into his ears, he turns to greet it with curiosity rather than fear – what should he fear now, in this place? He is a docile creature glowing gently under the eye of the harvest moon, and the figure approaching him awakens no call to action beyond a slight flicker of the ears, a quick ripple of acknowledgment in the subtle blue pools of those staring eyes.

        He knows this girl. When last they spoke, they spoke of gods and now she appears looking half divine herself, with light cradling her orange shape and spilling out onto the grass at her feet. Hers is unlike the starlight; it glows warm, orange to match her skin. With her is the kitsune, Natraj; the silver creature knows this, too. He is not certain why it comes so easily to mind; she made an impression, perhaps. He has spoken with her more than once and now he greets this newest meeting with a feeling like – like spring water bubbling up from the ground.

        “Caneo?” She says the name he gave her – his name – and he answers with a shallow nod. Something about her voice reminds him of butterfly wings, of moonlight rippling on the edges of a fractured pond. Is she afraid? She moves too slowly to be fleeing and he wonders if the fear is him somehow. He turns briefly to blink at the meadow before his gaze swings back to her. “Hello, Tandavi.” He speaks gently, still unsure. “Hello, Natraj.” Why are they here at night? Are they following the stars? Do they know their destination? He never asked – he realizes with a chill – if Tandavi has a home. Perhaps she does.

        A small, selfish part of him hopes maybe she does not.

        Rather than call attention to her fear he lowers his head a little and smiles at her. He finds it easy to do to; something about her here in the dark is warm and whimsical. “You look like a firefly,” he muses, and blinks at the bauble resting over her chest. She strikes him now as a child suited to this land, suited to magic and gods and trees and whispering grass. He wants to approach but holds himself back, waiting for the girl to come to him if she feels safe enough. He has known too well the bite of fear to push her any farther; he would rather not see her go.