Wapun Meadow casanova

The flowers were tall and thin, with crowns of bright yellow that seemed to fluoresce with the aid of the sun. Their faces were downcast much like the wolves which witnessed them. Renoir breathed in their aroma while the stranger spoke, lending some identification, and the anecdote made him smile thinly. It was a clever belief — they looked like six-point stars indeed. Or little yellow bonnets. Solèy kapo - the boy muttered to himself, deciding that the name suited them far more than the common-tongue'd moniker that the shadow had spoken of, beautiful as it was. Perhaps one day he'd tell someone about them; his heart yearned for Monet but she was far away from here, and even if he picked them all for her, they would be withered in his return.

Choosing to focus on the man beside him, his swift companion, was no easy feat. But the boy tried. He lifted his nose from the flowers and breathed the fresh spring air, a dusting of yellow pollen marking his snout - though it was mildly obscured by the natural blond of his fur - and he looked to the dark wolf, more curious than afraid. He sounded more foreign than the wolves of Rosings, but Renoir was fresh from his natal pack; he had no way of identifying the unique lilting of his words. Ya 'ave been 'ere long? 'Ou sound diferan -- not like mwen, and not like 'dem, as he mentions the pack whose borders are only an hour or so behind him, he tosses his head lightly to indicate.