Wapun Meadow casanova

Whether it was a good change or a bad one, Renoir quickly found himself entertaining company. The shadow swept through the meadow without hindrance, though their pace was slow. He did not notice them until they spoke, at which time the blonde man turned his head sharply, and his wandering gaze was met with the dark figure. Ren was thoughtful for a moment, finding the stranger's words to be alluring - they rang true to his ears, and brought a glimmer of light to his darkened heart.

I 'ave been here a few days now, but I 'ave not seen much'a da light, in fact, his days had been rather lacking of late. The memories of days ago weighed him down, almost as if they tethered him to this one place, even though the latest slight to his spirit had not been so harsh. It seemed that without Monet at his side, life was ultimately harder and far less purposeful. He was thankful for the dark stranger, and perhaps that was why he spoke and responded instead of flee, as he normally would. Bèl piti, Renoir murmured, more to himself than the stranger; he assumed that, like the wolves of Rosings, this entity would be just as clueless to his strange words and manners. Nonetheless, he ducked his head and breathed deep of the flowers surrounding him. Leetle beauties.

They were only flowers, and alas, they were nothing compared to sweet Monet.