She emerged from the shadowed depths of the ancient oak. Nearly six feet tall, she moved with the grace of a panther, her long, lithe limbs carrying her across the windswept moor. A cascade of raven hair, thick as a raven's wing, whipped around her face, framing eyes the color of a winter sky. Silver-blue and piercing, they held the wisdom of ages, the fierceness of a storm. Her face, though sculpted with a wild beauty, was etched with lines of sorrow and laughter, a testament to a life lived fully, a life both blessed and burdened. Two wolves, one as white as winter snow, the other black as midnight, flanked her, their eyes gleaming with an intelligence that mirrored her own. They moved with a silent grace, their bodies sleek and powerful, mirroring the strength that radiated from their leader.