Before you stands a silver wolf, glacier eyes 'pon your figure. Spring breeze blows gently, rustling leaves 'pon the treese. The female nears you, plume held with dignity. "Welcome. I am Lacryan." She speaks firmly. "You now stand 'pon my terra, Northern Lights." She turns and seems to dissapear into the surrounding treese, yet her scent is strong, and her tracks are lightly set in the ground. Her voice, once more, drifts lazily o'er the wind. "Come..."
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