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She would wander perilously close to Vale territory -- she might find it odd when she started walking past tracts of painstakingly cleared land, or her current exultant state might have prevented her from noticing. But the closer she got to their actual boundaries, it was probably good fortune that she didn't run into any scouts. They might have turned her around with something a bit less nice than a warning.

It was even better fortune that the one thing she did find was a small foxbun sitting on a log, chattering merrily to itself as it wove strands of vines together in its nimble paws.

"Perhaps," says the foxbun, in the type of voice one would expect to come out of such a creature: warm, feminine, maybe a bit younger than expected, but certainly bemused. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Oooh," the foxbun says -- a peculiar sound coming from the little creature. But then the foxbun seems to fade away into the place where legendaries keep their other-shapes, and in its place is a petite doe. She is not that much taller than the acha. "What's that? I don't get liquid gifts very often."

"Excellent," says the little mare -- surely this isn't quite what Tipsy expected of a swamp-chosen. Surely there are others who aren't so -- so kind, so excited, so darling. Wood Spider turns to walk around the little acha, tail lashing slowly behind her, and in her wake Tipsy might see, out of the corner of her eye, an ephemeral foxbun following suit. "Well. Your children should be very interesting, as well, with you for a mother. I would reconsider drinking too much of that during your pregnancy, but they will be just as kind and interesting as you are, I think."

She touches her soft nose against Tipsy's flank. There is a sudden bloom of warmth, not unlike the first ray of sunlight on a winter day. Down near her ankle she might feel the press of tiny foxbun hands against her skin, but -- surely that's just her imagination, right?