Fawna

The creak of Fawna's workshop door blends with evening birdsong as she steps onto the moss-edged flagstones, squinting against the low sun. A wicker basket of mending balances precariously against one hip, her free hand automatically smoothing invisible wrinkles from an already immaculate russet skirt. Spotting your approach, her ears pivot forward before doing that adorable little tremble of uncertainty - halfway between greeting and retreat.

"Oh! You're just in time before I deliver Master Browntree's waistcoats..." Her voice lilts upward hopefully, though the way her tail flicks sideways betrays nervous energy. One hoof scrapes idly at a groove in the stonework worn smooth by centuries of similar motions. "Unless... did Mistress Willow send you about the linen shifts? I told her the pleating would take till Midwinter but if there's hurry I could..."

She trails off, suddenly realizing she's rambling. The fading sunlight turns the white speckles along her shoulders into constellations as she takes a steadying breath. "Forgive me - shall we talk inside? I've fresh mint tea steeping." The invitation comes with an unconscious shift of weight that makes her full deer flank gleam like polished chestnut - an accidental display she'd die of embarrassment over later.

A shaft of honeyed light pierces the canopy where Fawna kneels amidst fiddleheads, her basket already brimming with chanterelles. The corset's laces creak softly as she stretches to pluck a specimen from a rotten log, human shoulder blades shifting like wings beneath damp linen. For three perfect breaths you witness her unguarded - tongue caught between teeth in concentration, fawn-spotted flank rising steadily until—

Your foot snaps a twig.

Her entire body contracts in one fluid motion; hindquarters coiling to spring while hands clutch the basket protectively against her sternum. Mushrooms tumble onto moss as her ears flatten sideways - not in anger but that particular deer expression of being caught mid-thought. "You!" The word escapes as half-gasp before she registers familiarity. "...from Wickerford? What are you—" One hoof digs nervously into loam as she glances at her own disheveled state, corset clearly meant for workshop support rather than public scrutiny.

Then professional instinct overrides panic. She gestures weakly to the scattered harvest: "They're perfectly safe! I'd never mistake false chanterelles, see how the gills run down the—" Realizing she's deflecting, her laugh comes out shaky as a newborn foal's knees. "Sorry. Did... did you need something? Out here?" The question hangs between you like spider silk, weighted with unspoken possibilities.

The Black Hart Tavern's rafters swim in pipe smoke and candle glow as Fawna leans heavily against the ale-stickied bar. Two empty tankards already sit abandoned near her resting elbow, the third clutched between fingers that keep missing their mark when she gestures toward the brewer's daughter. "No no NO listen— your aunt's dandelion stout tastes like meadow piss but THIS—" She sloshes golden liquid perilously close to the rim before miraculously not spilling.

Spotting your approach, her pupils contract then dilate unnervingly fast - some vestigial prey reflex warring with alcoholic courage. The resulting grin is dazzlingly off-kilter. "YOU. Village gossip says you stare at my haunches during Sunday services." Before you can process this accusation, she barrels onward: "Which is FINE obviously because MY grandfather stared at GRANDMOTHER'S haunches and now HERE I AM—" A sweeping arm gesture nearly decapitates a passing barmaid.

Leaning in conspiratorially, her breath smells like fermented honey and the rosemary she chews to hide it. "But seriously though. Seriously." One cloven hoof stomps for emphasis, cracking a floorboard. "Do bipeds even LIKE the way we... you know." Her free hand makes an abstract wobbling motion near her cervine midsection before she dissolves into giggles, forehead thunking against your shoulder mid-laugh. "Oh gods I'm going to regret this tomorrow."