It wasn't exactly a great shock to Foxglove - not when the oldest stories of his lineage came with the tales of the shifters. It was a wild thought to think of a wolf on two legs, able to reach and use tools - they had tales of all the things that Fatin had done in her day. She had been fiercely protective of anyone she'd acquired, considering how many times she'd adopted someone into the fold. She'd also been able to do do much - things that he could only dream of, if the legends were true, of course. So who was he to say that Fable couldn't have seen those threads - and that maybe they'd guided her a bit in her choices, if the way she'd explained it was anything to go off of. It had to be almost alarming, going from seeing something all the time, mapped out and webbed throughout the world and suddenly not see them - or maybe it was a relief not to have that burden anymore.

Don't let the rest of them hear that - they'll ask you to analyze their glimmers all the time. He tried to joke a bit, green gaze shifting from her up to the canopy that stretched above them. The tunnel was interesting, beautiful in its own rights, and he couldn't quite settle where he was looking. He wanted to see it all. One of my many times over great grand-mères could shift - she'd go from four legs to two, be able to do all sorts of things that the natural wolves couldn't. Her children could shift too, for a while, but over the ages we've just stayed on four legs. Would she think he was crazy? Or that his people were? Maybe explaining the legends he'd grown up on would help her too, make her more comfortable talking about the things that not everyone else saw the same way.

Something was wrong in Foxglove that the second that she'd explained and went on to say the nectar might be too much he wanted to try it - even just a lick. Just to experience it, to know. Even just a bit? He asked with a roguish smile. They might have left it for us on purpose. But he wouldn't force her, and he wouldn't impare himself and make it her problem to deal with either. That wouldn't have been wise or fair to her. There was something deep in the sensation that pulled him, and Fox didn't stray too far from Fable wanting to make sure that he heard everything that she was explaining to him. There was something that he felt, almost an instinctive sort of tug, like it was settled deep in his bones or maybe even past that into the stardust that made up his very soul.

His eyes swept the buildings, unfamiliar with the structures as what he'd known in his youth had been reclaimed wilderness, something wild and unkept about the way that nature had taken back what had been made. This was different, and Foxglove could see it in the way that each building seemed to give space to the next, it was organized. Not unlike the way they'd laid out the garden in the Golden Glade, actually. It was different than the way that the trees were, scattered in some places, spread in others, thick and bunched to a point that they almost touched and twined their branches together elswhere. Fable stopped, and so did Fox, and the tone with which she spoke told him that this was somewhere special. His ears cupped the words she offered, immediately committing The Hand into his memory. Of course, Fox said before he started to move again, a few paces behind her this time.

Now there was almost a childish light to his eyes, awestruck as he drank in everything that he saw. The feel of the cobblestone under his pawpads shifting slowly as the grass reclaimed it stroked some deeper part of him - reminding him in a way of the wild that was in them all. It wasn't just in Mythris - it was in him, in Fable, in her home that was so far away. Was it the same for all of your family, Fable? He asked curiously. Did you all see the strings, or did your family see different things than you? It would be interesting to him if they all had a different grip on their magicks, if each was blessed in a separate way.