The shadow of his movement is indistinct, as hazy and uncertain as the details of his face. She watches them cautiously, trying to decipher if it truly is him, not a wraith or a trick of the light or a ruse. From beneath her hooves the kitsune creeps forth, emboldened by scent and a less phobic fear; he closes the distance with the sound of a shadow, a minuscule form in the tall meadow grass. A golden ear pursues his path, silent whispers passed between the pair: It's safe. Is it? I wouldn't lie. Come on.

She waits, uncertain, for the boy's reply, still unconvinced at her brother's quick oath.

Her name floats back on silvery words, carried gently by the midnight breeze. She releases the breath trapped beneath her fluttering heart, the flicker of a smile beginning to clear the clouds from moon-slashed eyes; she likes the sound of her name on his tongue, the way he breathes out clouds of sound. It is a happy revision, a pleasant surprise, for there is warmth to his voice, if only a shade. Still, she remembers the vacancy of their past encounter, the cautious questions and the fleeting replies. On hesitant hooves she dances toward his call, a curious moth enraptured by the moon, uncertain yet eager to find closeness, to draw the warmth from his glacier soul.

The sadness is faded from his voice, though she that thinks his eyes still glitter with ice. She watches them closely as she pauses her flight, remembering his figure doused in midday sun. The starlight, she thinks, is a far better fit; he wears well the distant glow, wraps it around narrow shoulders and drapes it down his fragile back. Where she is afraid now he seems far relaxed, and the curve of his lips draws out her light, softening fear into sanguine smiles. Quietly she soaks in the lines of his form, remembering ribs and the leonine tail.

He calls her a fierfly, and she likes the comparison, suddenly glad for the dark which hides her unexpected flush, the flicker of pleased diffidence in her eyes. It is the closest she has come to being called pretty, especially by one of the opposite sex, and the resulting confusion is pleasant and strange. She likes him, she decides, not for the first time; she will help him, she thinks, for he makes her feel safe. She doubts he would be any help in a fight, but she isn't concerned overly by this fact: the comfort of him comes from the sound of his voice, not the knot of his bulk.

Tandavi laughs with a deep alto chime; another step forward, and he's half a length away. "You look like the moon," she replies dark and bright, Natraj at her feet nodding vigorously. The motion, in part, is to make Caneo notice the newly gained leaf which bronzes his black brow; he is painfully proud of the Earth God's regard, though the girl doubts any equine would see something so small, and she is too interested in Caneo to pay her brother any mind. She asks him a question: "What were you doing?" curious for insight on this little-known friend, for answers and pieces in the puzzle of the boy. She knows well her reasons for being out in the dark, but his are a mystery, another story to help her understand the world.