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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.
