Neverwinter Forest hymn for the weekend

At nearly three months of age, Cypress Benvolio Frostfur was experiencing his first autumn. There was a new urgency in the air that he did not fully understand, but it was evident in the behavior of the prey animals as much as the Neverwinter wolves that something was coming. According to Eshe and Scimitar, it was apparently a very large, very unavoidable something called “winter” and it seemed an angry sort of beast. “Winter’s comin’ and we have to be ready for it. Your Paw’ll make sure we’re well taken care of,” Eshe had said a time or two. The sainted mother had been under the weather and feeling poorly of late, which meant that her beloved boys were running a little wild — and with a brisk chill whisking through the forest, Cypress found his paws flying toward the territory borders and the sound of a howl. He had never expressly been told not to answer the calls of strangers, after all, and felt it his duty as a fledgling guardian of the forest.

On sturdy legs that still seemed a bit too long for his growing frame, Cypress approached the borders as he imagined Scimitar did, putting a swagger in his step as he lifted his carriage to its pinnacle. That he was still noticeably shorter than the stranger did not deter him in the least. She was, he thought, quite pretty — her eyes were a bright monarch butterfly orange, standing out brightly against her snowy fur. She seemed cautious, her body language telling Cypress that she was meekly awaiting the attendance of a greater beast, and he was eager not to disappoint. Licking his lips, he drew a deep breath and climbed a nearby log so that he could fix her with a compelling — or so he thought — gaze. His inner flair for the dramatic and theatrical, subdued when he was around his more boisterous littermate, eked its way out as he addressed her.

“I am Cypress Benvolio Frostfur,” he said, pronouncing each syllable with as much meticulous precision as he could muster, “guardian of this wood.” His bottlebrush tail flagged the air with pride and eagerness but he stilled it, assuming his most stoic expression. Cypress’ vocabulary was extensive; he enjoyed words and was forever pestering Scimitar and Eshe to ask what something meant or to request critique on his syntax or pronunciation. He learned, in this way, that Eshe and Scimitar had different accents — and he was already adept at mimicking the slow, honeyed melt of Eshe’s Southern cadence as well as the more precise, less ebullient way of speaking that Scimitar exhibited. It was Scimitar’s calm rhythm he employed now, feeling it seemed more official. “Are you a friend or a foe?”