Philomel absolutely hated fuchsia. In fact she hated almost every single type of pink, whether bright or dull, sparkling or scary, purple-ish or close to red. The only time she would ever like them, she considered, was if there was a breed of animal that had the colour pigment as its coat, and then maybe - maybe - she could use it as a deterrent to keep particular Ixian Knight warriors away.

Yet - this was not Philomel's gig. No indeed, she did not know where she was, and in this case it did not matter if she hated the look of the out-of-place cottage, with open shutters and a thatched roof. There she was, standing in a cobbled street in Raiaera, entirely under the direction of Veridian. For now, for this day, their sense of place and purpose was under his black nose; partly for the amusement she got from seeing him so angry, partly for the simple realisation that he was as important to her as her own life was. Therefore she gave up resisting as the fox marched forwards, and then opened the door for him, for his forepaws had no capability to twist the brass door knob.

He did not look at her. He did not let out a sound but rather grumbled a, "thanks," into her mind before wondering into the room.

From what the faun-whore could see, and smell, the house was old. Rather too old, with peeling wall paper and only candles for light when gas was a definite modern thing that Alerar had surely given to the Raiaerans. The light was dull, therefore, and did not illuminate the low-ceiling narrow space well, which had a large wooden table dominating much of the room. A cast-iron stove stood to the back wall, and onto this was placed a mighty cauldron, from which smoke spilled like a fountain. All over the hearth the stonework was black, as black as the dirty dress that the woman on the stool was clothed in, as she slowly stirred the mixture.

Philomel paused, realising that they had trespassed onto some sort of home-brewery affair. From the stench in the air it was clear this woman either knew not how to cook or thought the old stories of witchcraft were real, and that by boiling sheep's piss and rodent tails together, one could brew up love. By the short pointy hat the faun assumed the latter was true, and so she decided the right approach was to speak calmly and slowly to this old mad crone. Coughing, she rolled back her shoulders and prepared to begin.

"Ma-"

"Ohhhhh hello dearie!" the woman suddenly said.

The voice, sweet and lined with delicious seduction, made Philomel jump. Her mouth opened and closed for a moment, until she realised that the woman was not looking at her, but rather Veridian, whom she had totally been ignoring. The fox-form Earth Spirit had wound his way over the the crone, and was brushing his tail back and forth across her ankle, his mouth open and ... smiling like this person was familiar to him and he liked her.

"Yes, yes, she is right in the back," the crone reached down to scratch him behind the ears. "And you may leave your familiar here, if you wish."

For a moment Philomel was taken aback. Entirely confused, she folded her arms, then addressed the woman sternly.

"What familiar? What are you talking about?"

The crone turned and waved a hand at the faun, before reaching down and stroking Veridian once more.

"She's a bit noisy and rude for a noble like you," she cooed to him, "I don't know why you put up with it."