Wild Berry Meadow you were coming across as clever, then you lit the wrong end of your cigarrette

She wanted to know what tragedy. He blinked. The tragedy had not been his focus... so much as the dismissal of Épanoui. But thinking back, perhaps he had not made that clear. A storyteller the beast was not. Étoille cleared his throat. "Er," he started, only to be cut off by her own story. 

Relief flooded him. He supposed he could answer her question later, when he had thought of it. Unlike him, she seemed to have more of a gift with words, and he settled down to listen raptly. His maman had been good with stories. Perhaps that is where he got this affinity for listening, even if her gifts skipped his genetics. Maera's story was abstract - a wolf crafted from dreams, a ghostly figure. It made him feel prickly, the idea of meddling with nature like that. Even if the gods had allowed it (and that was a complicated notion in itself. Étoille was not sure where he stood on the idea of gods). His dark eyes widened at the flame and thunder, at the absence of pain. The story came full circle then. But the man was... not fully satisfied. "Who dreamt him?" he asked despite himself. It was probably not the point of the story in the same way his half-thought-out tragedy wasn't. And Maera's words were better than his. But still - he could not help but feel curious, and a little. Anger was a strong word. Put off by the gods role in that story - that they allowed this strange cycle to continue.