Hushed Willows something to confide in, something to erase

Sunburst Glade

The dark shape of Hypnos could be seen sprawled in the open, this time. It was hard to tell if he was awake or asleep, but he was alive so that must count for something. Snow was falling around him; he was on his back, watching the white of the sky as it scattered across his vision like ashes.

There was a thread of panic within the pack recently, and while he'd picked up on the frenzy of the others, he had not been moved to participate in whatever chaos had transpired; he remained oblivious to the state of Reverie, which was probably for the better. Hypnos wasn't good for anything.

Snow!!!!!!!!!

A dusky figure bounded spastically through the gathering flakes, moving as if he thought he could dodge each one. His distaste for the stuff wasn't personal, really — he didn't have any real emotions attached to it, anyway. It was just the tactile feel of it between his paw pads, or even feather-light on his coat. Like spiders! Except rain was a bit like that, too, and it didn't make him pick his paws up to his chest with every step.

And because this was a senseless kind of squick, it had some senseless cures to go with it.

The sight of another wolf drew him like a a particularly skittery moth to flame. Dusty Rose did not even announce himself before squishing into the stranger's space, fully intending to hunker down with him in the snow.

The snow the ash the world spun and disintegrated above him.

Something physically slammed in to the earth and burrowed against his side, tucking a bony figure in to him, rousing Hypnos from whatever stupor had claimed him. He breathed a frigid breath inward, eyes rolling in their sockets as he turned his head and looked; he saw this skinny earth-built thing, this twig-legged mud sculpture, and did not recognize it.

You're early. The snow salted them both. Spring isn't for a while... If it comes again at all.

Just a note about Dusty's figure — he is lanky but still with muscle and fat deposits and a metic shit ton of floof!

It took a moment of fussing for Dusty Rose to loaf himself into the stranger's breadbox, paws tucked firmly into his fluffy undercoat. The snow still fell on him, but the sensation was outcompeted by the heat and pressure of the body pressed against him. This, of course, was how snow could best be enjoyed.

"I'm not," the coywolf protested when he was rudely accused. "I'm here right when I mean to be. In the winter. Spring will come when it comes."

What a weirdo.

The coywolf craned his head to squint up at the snow. A flake caught rudely on his lashes, and he blinked it away. He guessed it was pretty enough to look at, and that maybe this could be peaceful for someone who wasn't him — but the activity still concerned him.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" he asked, shuffling again so that he could look down at the wolf without seeming to loom. This did not take him any further from his new buddy — in fact, he was eyeing his chest, which looked like an exceptionally comfortable pillow.