Currently the moon is in the waxing New Moon phase (2% full).

The forest spreads out to the east, bounded on the west by Sunrise Road. From farther to the west, one can occasionally hear the distant sounds of the town of Kent's Crossing.

Once her howl has died away Holds-the-Line trots toward the northern side of the bawn and the place where she'd said she would meet the Fostern Philodox. She travels swiftly through the darkness, not stopping to follow interesting trails or investigate scents. Once she's reached the spot the beige wolf tosses up another howl before sitting, tail wrapped tightly to her haunches, to wait.

It's a few minutes before the Fianna appears, ruddy form bleeding out of the evening shadows. Her arrival is quiet, calm breaths indicating lack of exertion, as if she were already very near. She pauses between two trees, settling eyes on the Glass Walker before crossing out to meet her. Here I am.

Sifhuil, the Galliard greets, rising to all fours with her tail held easily level with her back. Thank you for coming. Are you well?

Sifhuil thinks, then dips her muzzle faintly, indicating that she is. The halfmoon curls her haunches fluidly beneath her, sitting. And you, Holds-the-Line?

Ribbons of fire dance throughout the darker, rust-red fur of this wolf bitch, highlighted by silvery guard-hairs spersed randomly across a summer coat. Smears of gray and black mark long, wolven features like warpaint; they splash her underside, tail, and riddle her limbs like shadows sprung upward from the earth that grabbed a hold in passing.

This creature moves with a natural, unpracticed grace; from the looks of it, she's spent years in these wilds--prowling, hunting, running--doing as wolves will do. It's the strange coloring of her eyes, then, that seems quite unnatural: a vivid, hazel-blue set within dark, angled sockets. They glimmer with mocking cynicism overlaid by an animal intelligence that, upon closer inspection, doesn't seem very animalistic at all.

Holds-the-Line is also well. The Walker hesitates, then adds that she would Challenge for rank. Her orangish eyes meet the Fianna's hazel-blue and remain there.

Sifhuil's eyes narrow marginally, as if she's about to intensely scrutinize the Galliard at length--but then she quickly yips her acceptance of the challenge. That was the easy part. Now, if you are ready, you will pass the terms I give to you at moot.

Holds-the-Line keeps the Fostern's gaze as long as she can, though as the scrutiny continues her unease rises. Only after Sifhuil's yip does she look away, body and hackles relaxing. Yes, she agrees. I will do so. Thank you. Another moment passes in which she steals a sideways look at the Philodox, then wonders if there is any news she carries which the other would like to hear?

The muscles in the Fostern wolf's jaw work as she considers this, shifting her weight from one foreleg to the other, seeming a touch preoccupied. But she tells the Glass Walker that there is not, and thanks her.

Holds-the-Line mimics the other's head dip, her ears swiveling forward. Then I should return. Long-Climb, my cub... you understand about cubs.

Sifhuil shows that she does with a brief, good-natured flash of teeth, and wishes her luck.

[End of log]