The King sat in the Little Garden, as fall had hit, what was once beautiful wisteria tree's, the petals slowly were on the ground, and stripped away from the tree. Very few was left, and gave the hint to the Kingslend Wolves of what would be for next spring, but sadly they had arrived to late, to truly see it's beauty. The trees were willowed down to soon barness, as winter was coming.

Célnes laid with her paws in front, as she peacefully leaned against one of the trees. She could only dream, what they would look in spring.

"Ooh-ooh, good King Célnes once faced the mighty horde / bore their teeth at the High Elk's crown / and to them her antlers gored / their bowels, unleashed upon the ground - a vicious sight to see / the King forsook the heretics / and to the High Elk took her knee." 

His voice doesn't boom as it normally would, but it does carry. Ravinger sings clearly, the sound echoing somewhat eerily through the woodland. The naked trees provide little cover, which makes spotting his cousin easier.  With the gait of a jaunty pup, he approaches one of his kings, tail left still at his backside. He respects her enough not to show any signs of dominance, after all.

"Room for one more, my dearest King?" his tone suggests he finds the rank funny. Sure, Célnes has been groomed for the role for as long as he can remember, but that doesn't make it any less humorous. In public he may address her more seriously, but in private, what's the use? They're just two wolves of the same bloodline. Kings and bards all shit the same. So, he doesn't wait for her answer. He joins her and sprawls out on his back, legs up in the air. "Hope this place isn't this ugly all the time. Autumn and winter are such boring seasons. Don't you think?"

She momentarily narrowed her look to the sound of a song ringing out. It seemed like a shadow to what had happened days ago to Rohesia; a member who had gone 'missing,' so she will claim. If to ask, Célnes would say perhaps she simply grew tired of being not a higher-ranking wolf, and sought to create her own nation. Without a word, she was gone-

though Ravinger sung something eerie similar to the private situation between three individuals. When he approached she smiled politely, and quietly decided to keep on eye on the bard, "hello cousin," the King replied, "I concur, I believe Autumn is simply dazzling once the leaves turn red. However it only lasts for so long, it's truly a shame."

Ravinger arches himself somewhat awkwardly to scratch at one of his ears with a back foot.  He gives his King a look while he's at it, clearly judging his cousin for her appreciation of the two seasons he's just vocalized he dislikes. "Red is fine and all, but how about some green?" he laments theatrically, leaning into his usual dramatics.  Ravinger falls onto his back once more, sending up dead wisteria and other leaves.  Something gets in his nose, and he sneezes it out.  That's all this weather was at the end of the day:  a promise of more sneezing.

"Did you like the song I composed for you, cousin?  I could do another verse.  One about your new life as a King," as usual, he doesn't wait for her response. "Brown of pelt and orange of eye / led her wolves to the end of nigh / thought she might a forest find / a place who held the High Elk's hind." The tune is merry, as most of his songs are.  It isn't often he's in a sullen enough mood to compose mournful ballads.

"Your songs always bring a livelihood to the forests, cousin." She complimented the bard as he continued throwing tunes for the female King, "soon it seems you shall achieve Fabliest. Perhaps spread your tune a bit more, and the whole forest will recognize you as one."

His songs sounded at times but simple tunes, but held a history to them. It was indeed a rank that still held dear to the pack-life, for they at the moment, had no one else to share the tales of the Deorwine's, or the past of the Kingslend wolves. Just a few more, she imagined, especially her brother, soon he too, would be granted the rank. She almost tempted now to do so, but it had been some time since Célnes heard her cousin sing.

She would hope it was not a phase.

"Oh, well, aren't you feeling generous today," he teased her cheekily.  Ravinger might be an arrogant wolf who believed himself extraordinary, but that didn't mean he didn't also love to receive compliments -- especially from a King. "Yes, yes, writing our history is important, yada yada. My mentor said much the same." He'd sought counsel back in their old territory with a wandering bard for some moons.  Ravinger had bought his time and attention with whatever the old man wanted.  In exchange, he learned the ins and outs of being a bard.

"Don't think because you're King I won't spare you from parody songs, now," he reminded her with a smirk. "I'll tell our history, but history needs a few laughs to spare the future generations from all the boring parts.  Blood and gore is fun and all, but you haven't truly experienced joy until you've serenaded a King with a song about how gassy she is on occasion." That mischievous glint remained in his eyes.

"Share a tune of me, cousin." She enticed him to sing more of a song about herself, and while unmittingly, there was slight pride knowing songs would be passed down from her. Célnes would hope her and Cenric would be shared to the other Deorwine, but with their disappearence and mysteries to where they are; her history may simply vanish.

She would be rather pleased if he continued singing a tune about her.

"Yes, yes, alright," he was never one to pass up an opportunity to hog the spotlight.  When a King asked him to compose a song for her, he always listened.  Clearing his throat in that dramatic manner that he always did, he started another verse of the song that he had previously sung. "Beautiful and good, a King of much acclaim / Célnes of the Deorwine, first of her name / thought she would, a handsome suitor take / to warm her feet upon cold mornings wake!" A lovely tune about how all Célnes needed in a husband was a living and breathing foot-warmer.

"Thank you for that tune. I would hope to be true." A slight chuckle rose imagining a prince charming, though sadly of all the Deorwine men, none were given a second look from the heiress.

"I do say, where is your Princess?" she asked with a sly smile, as their choices were limited.. She could only think of Cynefrid by choice.

"You are well on your way. A few adjustments, and then all you will need is a man to warm your feet," he winked at her and gave his limbs a thorough stretch.  It was one of those good ones where his toes curled.  The subject changed course after that, though not entirely.  Célnes mentioned a princess of his own, and he had to laugh.

"She has a sense of humor," he noted with amusement. "Why not a prince?  Why not a prince and a princess?  Why such limiting language, my king?" he teased in return, never one to harbor space for a serious conversation.

"Fair enough," the King chuckled at him so. She wondered what kind of dashing Prince he would enjoy if he did not prefer a Princess, "perhaps cousin Calhoun is for you then?"

Kingslend was definitely one that claimed a hatred to different pelt-colors, but they care not to one's own love life. Quite a few were paired with their own gender, and she did not care as well. Though Célnes knew of her own taste, which resided within men themselves.

"Gods no," he nearly gagged, though the humor in his eyes remained. "Unlike some, I prefer the wolf I chase to be thoroughly unrelated to me." Ravinger gave Célnes a look.  He wasn't suggesting that she was one of those wolves by any means; he simply wanted to make his point clear. "Besides, he's such a bore. I don't think he's ever had a single, independent thought." Said the wolf who napped and sang all day. "You didn't ask my opinion, but he's an awful choice for Baron. Hardly deserves it." He pointed that out without any hesitation.  It was always time for Ravinger's opinion.

"Do Déorwine women talk, cousin?" he wondered, his minding wandering to Cynefrid.  Perhaps he could ask Célnes about the Sawbone without actually asking her.

"It would've given to Odessa for original knowing so, but she is already a Bull. It was a must for the achievement of finding this home." The King felt if she did not give an appropriate title, some may question her choices even moreso. Already do they wonder her alliance to the Deorwine name as she questions the religious side of their family, but she could not do the same upon familial ties. Not to mention placing Calhoun at such a place, perhaps he would be more loyal, and less willing for any troubles to brew.

A foolish wish.

"Do you remember the fangroup of my dearest brother and cousin?" the group of lovers who lust over Cenric and Calhoun, "there wasn't a day I dont remember them talking."