Blackfeather Woods young artists have gotta starve

He was a vain thing, always grooming and fluffing himself up! The oujo watched keenly as the russet male continued about lackadaisically, retorting and asking after Kitsch’s relative obscurity. This, Kitsch didn’t like — this whole ‘having to explain herself’ thing. It was one of the nice things about her current arrangement; they were all pretty laissez-faire if she did not encourage their explicit interest. Ganandorf — she knew his name because she did not only live amongst the Blackfeather Wolves, but she listened to them and she learned their conversations — could prove to be a threat to such a strange tranquility. 

 Kitsch’s ink-stained brows knitted in kittenish consternation.  “Well,” she chirped haughtily. ”No one bothered to invite me.” It was true; whatever these opportunities to participate were, news of them had never reached her ears. This would have been a problem for the Kitsch of old, but new Kitsch was fine with it. With sudden fire, she cut a twist of a smile towards Ganondorf.  “It’s whatever, though. You all are so weird.” It was a small joke, but behind it, there was truth. You know. Don’t you? she thought to herself. You have to know how strange this place is.