The Heartwood i am a question to the world

“What a lovely name,” the willowy creature remarked with a jovial smile.

The length of his dark tail wavered back and forth as he eyed the young thing, noting just how suitable the moniker was to such a frost-touched figure. For all his life, the hound had felt as though his name had been granted to him as a means of continuing on his family line. It was pretentious and folly, but he had been given it and so he had carried it as well as he could. Pride had never been his strong suit. Though he seemed out of touch with the world, he did what he could to remain humble.

“You suit it well, I see. Tell me, have you lived here your whole life? Or are you an adventurer seeking glory and fame?”

The questions seemed to flow from him easily. To a wiser wolf, or one who had aged beyond what Winterbourne had, Cavendish would have appeared to have donned a permanent pair of rose-tinted goggles. He carried himself as though he had never truly understood or felt the twinge of sadness or loss. Ah, but that was what the prince had been meant to do his entire life. It was always about the appearance of things, wasn't it?