A ripe maid of seventeen moved about the strawberry patch at the last minute, chatting amicably with birds who understood her.<br/><br/>When at last her basket was full, she bid the birds good evening, and they promptly went back to squabbling over who owned which tree.<br/><br/>Skipping back to her house, she washed the strawberries in the well with her mother, then rushed upstairs too change.<br/><br/>Last night, in the privacy of a glade in the woods, ritually skyclad save for the medallion of Lurue dangling betwixt her swaying breasts, Meave had danced in joyful prayer and humble supplication throughout the night, entreating the goddess to send her a special friend and loyal companion.<br/><br/>At the end of the ecstatic ritual, bathed in sweat, she'd dropped to her knees in the moonlight, hands outstretched entreating.  For a brief moment, she'd seen the luminous eyes and high triangular ears of a fox peering out of the woods.  Then exhaustion claimed her.<br/><br/>Her mother had found her and carried her to bed with the strength only a parent can no.  She had yet to see him again, but the night was not so dark anymore, and her sense of smell was growing sharper by the hour as the bond built in them, changed them, joined them.