Ravensblood Forest of dancers and dreamers

Her cry was answered swiftly by the most stoic of men. This pleased Kitsch immensely, as this was the type of service she had been accustomed to. Outside the confines of her royal home, the world was so... unhurried. When left to their own devices, everythings seemed to happen as a glacial pace. She was the reluctant laggard, strung along by the natural course of things, unadjusted to the idea of waiting.  Kitsch didn’t like the idea of waiting for anything — she hadn’t even rally waited that long before seeking domicile with a group of wolves other than her kingdom. The very moment Kitsch noticed herself wasting away from hunger and boredom, she folded and sought safety amongst the numbers and talents of others. 

Now she was here, her aquamarine gaze falling upon the shrouded man who manifested between the trees, asking him for help. That was a reality that, internally, Kitsch had a hard time accepting. Oh yes, Kitsch had help her entire royal life, but the girl never had to ask for it. Help had just always been there, plentiful and ready for her taking. She deserved it, she had been told and believed, for she was a princess and she could do no wrong for her kingdom.

The man explained the forest within which the pack resided. As he inquired for her reasoning, the man was joined by quite a frightful presence: a woman, battered. But the new addition to their conversation was kind, so Kitsch choked down her disgust as viewing such... degerancy and silently forgave her for the blood that offended the girl's sensitive nares and delicate aesthetic constiution. “I am Kitsch” She introduced herself with a practiced curtsy, curling her ink dipped paw in towards her chest — then, not knowing which wolf was in charge, she spoke to both.

“Oh, sir” the plucky pearl moaned. “Ma’am,” her gaze bounced to the wounded lady before sweeping towards the ground in a grandiose sense of melancholy. Though the act appeared submissive, it’s was not at all self sacrificial. In fact, the idea of submission to these two strangers had never even crossed her mind [so foreign was the idea to her] — but Kitsch did feel her misfortunes very keenly, so her woebegone stance came across as quite authentic. She hung her head for a moment before craning her head to look at them most pathetically. Her aquamarine eyes had metamorphosed into swimming, shimmering pools.  

“I seek domicile within your forest. The wilds are no place for me.”