A while passed before the little whisp of a fae woke up.

Fenn was laying on something soft and fluffy; musty fur tickled at his nose. He swatted at it. Let me sleep, you dumb mutt. It didn't shift, nor lick his face, nor bark insistently at him. Cracking open his eye just a bit, he wondered why Daugi wasn't being her usual boisterous self — then stopped and sighed as he realized his actual situation. It seemed that the fur he had been feeling had merely been a multihued pile of pelts cast across a stone floor for him to sleep on. He ran a hand through it, leaving a trail of frost and frowning. Memories of the village and the conflict trickled back in.

Oh. Right.

Now where was he? Fenn sat up stiffly and ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth to get rid of the sticky taste of sleep. He took in his new surroundings with wide-eyed curiosity and a dash of suspicion, clutching his satchel to chest for comfort.

It seemed that he had been laid to rest within a very strange sort of cave. His pelt bed was heaped up in front of a simple fireplace shaped directly from stone, bathing him in a warm yellow glow. The entire room felt carved out rather than a natural structure; there were no natural features, no stalagmites or bumps. Nothing more than rough reddish rock encased him. The furnishings of the chamber were sparse and simple, stools and boxes elegantly carved out of a dark wood. Pine needles, fur, and feathers littered the floor. This place was, he supposed, quite like the dance troupe whom had spirited him away in the first place. A little civilization, a little wildness.

There were only two exits to the room. Both lead into other chambers, rather than directly to the outside world.

A sharp intake of breath from behind caused him to throw a look over his shoulders. Lying in the shadow he cast was Myra in her true form. She peered into him with wide eyes, much in the way that a cat might stare at a mouse. The Saberlioness’ body twisted and melted, back into the guise of the jovial woman he danced with from before, crouching just a foot away.

Red locks fell over Fenn as she as she leaned towards him. He shyly wrinkled his nose, uncertain about how very, very close she was to him. Myra smelled much like his wolf buddy; blood and fur, mud and sweat.

“Did you sleep well?” she whispered into his ear with a feline grin.