Blackfeather Woods The thorns

They were all long dead, bitten and rimed by the cold of winter, but Ramsay sometimes liked to look at the wilted red petals of the roses in the territory's very center. He didn't know the name of the place or if it even had a name. It was an odd phenomenon, a fairly small patch of flowers surrounded by forest. Such a thin layer of snow broke through the dark canopy that they were only lightly dusted with white, and for him, they were easy to walk over.

Soon he would start to grow rapidly, and his weight would increase, and he would be more wary of the thorns underneath. Presently the young dwarf could drift over the tops of them, all while hardly disturbing the thick bed of brittle petals. There was the occasional warning pinch of a thorn below, but he didn't mind it, and soon enough he made his way across the circle and face-to-face with someone unfamiliar.

As with Argent, Ramsay approached head-on, showing no sign of being shy or uncertain. When he was a mere foot from Rouge, near enough to see her pale whiskers against the dark forest backdrop and to see the subtle shades in her pale blue eyes—in other words, close enough to be uncomfortable, especially with how he looked—he smiled and asked, "new?"