"You're awfully young to be all alone in the woods all by yourself…” There was a certain ring to Wilbur’s voice, a reverberation, an echo which was hard for a person to place — it wasn’t a dialect, nor an accent, nor any sort of infection or elocution… it was almost a sensation rather than a sound. As if the fae’s words were dripping with honey, sugary and sugary, almost saccharine-sounding. It was like candy to the ears. And there was something strange about the stranger’s eyes, too. They were… hard to look away from, but not out of any social obligation to make eye-contact, but because they seemed curiously magnetizing, alluring, in a mystifyingly mysterious way. It was a subtle pull, one that could’ve easily been charisma, but one which almost seemed supernatural instead. The man’s eyes were brown, but not just brown — they were a mousy mahogany, a beige burnt sienna that almost seemed as if it had been seared, satué’d and singed. They were cedar, tawny, umber, pecan, mocha, caramel, carob… they were almost their own prismatic hue. Looking into his eyes was like a kaleidoscope. It was unnerving… and alluring. Almost hypnotic. “…Are you lost?”