The Heartwood i am a question to the world

The forest reminds him of home, in a way; maybe the ruin is more pronounced here, as opposed to the stretching plains of his birthplace, but that only makes the connection stronger in his mind. The chill in the air only makes the ashen terrain feel even more dead; it's a crushingly lonely scene.
But that doesn't bother him as much as it probably should. Solitude has become synonymous with contentment for the young Corten, though he'd fought it so hard at the beginning of his life. Now, as he trails through the long-ruined forest, he thinks it's the best gift Morningside has given him. He finds more peace, more satisfaction in his travels than he'd found among others — he can't imagine ever confining himself that way again. The world is cold and hard, he thinks, but it is honest; it doesn't hide behind sweet lies like I love you, only to turn its back the moment he slips from sight. So, it's a pretty good trade in his opinion.

Youth had been so hard for the prince. He had longed and desired more than he had ever been able to fulfill. He had yearned, searching for what might fill the void that was felt in the pit of his chest. Many things had taught him what it meant to grow, but he still felt that familiar song in his spirit – the one that urged him forward. It was that same song that carried the regal Cavendish through the woods. The length of his willowy limbs allowed him to cover great distance, but he did not wish for it to pass him by without truly appreciating all that it had to offer.

The forest felt like a home to him. There were massive trees that cast shadows on the earth below, birds that chirped overhead and sunlight that fluttered through the foliage. It was odd for him to think that he had been born anywhere other than the wild wood. The prince knew that he could not belong anywhere but there. Perhaps, not the wood that he trekked through, but to the forests of the world.

A glimpse of silver caught his attention. The slighthound turned his crown toward the youthful wolf. He peered down the length of his muzzle at the young man, following the movements, wondering where it was that he was off to with such purpose. “Hello,” he called into the forest. Cavendish had a kind voice, soft and light in its deliverance. “Where might you be off to?”

A voice startles him, and he halts immediately with fur fluffed and ears pulled forward, head whipping around to find the source. His gaze lands on a dark, svelte figure — perhaps the strangest man he has ever seen. He hesitates, mouth dropping open just slightly as he takes in the elongated face and willowy limbs, the oddly captivating mahogany of the stranger's eyes. Uh, It comes out almost garbled and he swallows hard and coughs once, struggling to remember what the man had said, and abandons the effort entirely after a moment.
What are you? The tone of his question isn't mean or condescending, but rather awed — still, the silver-furred boy is obviously lacking in social graces. It might be too optimistic to say he'll one day have the self-awareness to look back on this moment and cringe, but who knows? For now, he can only stare, still a little slack-jawed and very wide-eyed.

It seemed as though he had taken the boy by surprise. The silver youth turned to look at him with a gaping mouth and studying eyes. Of course, Cavendish was no stranger to gawking. It had been a common occurrence in his travels away from home. It did little to dampen his spirits, though. The willowy prince knew that he was different, but he celebrated his unique appearance without missing a beat. From one who had not yet fully grown, Cavendish could only forgive him and educate as best as he could. 

The question hung in the air for a long moment before the dark prince curled his lips into a smile and waved his tail between his hocks. I'm not entirely certain I can answer that question, my boy. Let's begin with who I am, he stated cheerily. Then, the hound dipped his torso toward the earth in an elegant bow and latched the warmth of his gaze with the young boy's. 

I am Prince Cavendish Davenport II, of Roseweald Hollow. It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

He's captivated by the other's strange way of speaking, finding it as foreign and enchanting as his appearance. He takes an awkward step back when the stranger bows, ears pulling forward in surprise. After a moment of uncertainty, he mimics the bow with much less elegance, assuming it's the polite thing to do. Prince Cavendish Davenport II? He repeats, head tilting to one side. He assumes prince to be the other wolf's first name, unaware of the title or its meaning. I'm... Winterbourne. He wants to ask more questions, but the lack of answer to his first question leaves him uncertain. Instead he goes silent and watches the man a little anxiously, suddenly worrying that his own introduction is lackluster.

“What a lovely name,” the willowy creature remarked with a jovial smile.

The length of his dark tail wavered back and forth as he eyed the young thing, noting just how suitable the moniker was to such a frost-touched figure. For all his life, the hound had felt as though his name had been granted to him as a means of continuing on his family line. It was pretentious and folly, but he had been given it and so he had carried it as well as he could. Pride had never been his strong suit. Though he seemed out of touch with the world, he did what he could to remain humble.

“You suit it well, I see. Tell me, have you lived here your whole life? Or are you an adventurer seeking glory and fame?”

The questions seemed to flow from him easily. To a wiser wolf, or one who had aged beyond what Winterbourne had, Cavendish would have appeared to have donned a permanent pair of rose-tinted goggles. He carried himself as though he had never truly understood or felt the twinge of sadness or loss. Ah, but that was what the prince had been meant to do his entire life. It was always about the appearance of things, wasn't it?