Grouse Thicket cry wolf [malice]

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his laughter is light and airy and clear, but it is true of him, and it is true of his emotions. ysen tilts his head to acknowledge - see, this wolf agrees, his actions say - and the lady's words have always managed to light a spark of gladness within his mournful frame. Just because one cannot see the other, does not mean the other is truly gone - just as with the dead. "i have given you my word. should you find it to be false, then rip out my tongue - for i would never lie to a lady." gently, sweetly, he speaks, never once passing judgement, never once condemning. his tone, as always, is smooth, but pleasantly honeyed, as his Madir had trained him to be. silvertongue, she called him - silvertongue that he is!
"the wind sings, but the wind does not speak. the wind runs, but the wind does not crawl. the wind flies, but the wind does not fall. and the wind laughs, but the wind does not weep." even now he rhymes, moves his rhythm to the beat of his mind and the wind that he follows, that he knows himself to be. the youth smiles - a lamb's smile, a child's gaze - but it is a lamb who knows it is to be slaughtered, a child at the precipice of adulthood. "the lady is wise - one does not move with the current to fly."
would she offer the simple wanderer a home, then? ysen only laughs again, high and delighted. "this wolf should find himself in need of thicker hairs to last winter alone - hairs he does not have!" he bows, touching his nose to the feet of the noble-born lady. his queen, his goddess, his weaver of leaden speech. "might the simple wanderer then know the name of his queen?"

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