Wolf RPG - The world and her place in it were nothing and she understood that

The air was cold, especially being so near to the sea. And yet, she did not mind it too terribly; although generally appearing sleek in the warmer months, Arcelia surely inherited her winter coat from her father. This did not concern her, however, the white feathers falling down from the sky did. She was not entirely familiar with the owl that frequented Aningan’s side but she knew enough to recognise the similarity of the colours. But... when these feathers brushed against her nose, they seemed to then vanish, causing her concern to grow. She gazed up at the sky but there were no birds overhead, nothing that should be producing this mystical plumage.

What could it be, then?

At this altitude and at the mercy of the ocean's breath breaking through the stripped trees, even Rosencrantz could feel the chill in the air despite his Northern blood. Though it caused no discomfort, it was a stark contrast to the chill found in the moors previously, or on the plateau before that. Between here and the plateau the archangel had no preference, it was all a matter of making this new lands once again something familiar to call home so long as the wives chose to bunker here.

As he wandered the rocky terrain, one of the youths caught his eye. Their eyes turned to the sky almost questioningly as the snow fell in a slow waltz descending from the heavens. It had been far too long since he had that same curiosity, and so, her uncertainty of it had gone over his head. Instead, Rosencrantz found himself looking up in the same general direction of which she was looking into wondering what in the world she could be staring at.

Lost in thought, there was no telling for how long she stood there—equal parts admiring and questioning those peculiar feathers. But there was a shift in the air about her being, and so she tilted her muzzle down. Scanning her surroundings, she nearly missed the white beast, seeming but a mere wisp disturbing the previously steady descent of feathers. And when she realised he was of flesh and blood, she nearly spooked—but he was not wholly unfamiliar, as she thought, and she recognised his gnarled face; she knew him in passing, primarily.

“Are you also curious about the feathers?” she called out, having nothing else to refer to the snowflakes as. Then, she could not help but to wonder how her sister would think of the sight. Would she, too, be lost in the mystery of it?