Meadowlark Prairie you dream, some nights, of a labyrinth deep underground

The wolf was pale and marked with cream along his muzzle and skull. There were splashes of charcoal that rested in places along the stranger's sides. Cavendish was not subtle about his viewing of the beast. He wished to analyze and understand before he found his tongue to introduce himself. For his wandering gaze, he did not miss how the beast was looking upon him; there was curiosity and wariness there.

With a sweeping of his tail, the willowy hound dipped his torso toward the earth and held his position there – just as he had been taught in his youth. Then, when an appropriate amount of time had passed, Cavendish rose and latched his ghostly gaze with the wolf. “I am Cavendish Davenport II,” he introduced in a voice that sounded as though it belonged to an angel. There was a singsong air about his speech, and once he had concluded his introduction, the prince curled his lips into a polite smile.

“And who do I have the pleasure of meeting on this lovely fall day?”