Hushed Willows [festival] the sun's not yellow, it's chicken

The wraith moved to follow after the man who had claimed to offer stories for those who would listen. While he was not the type to always appreciate the work that went into crafting tales, he always thought that there was a way to understand others by how they told their stories. For a man who thrived on learning how to interact with individuals, it was a good opportunity for the titan to grasp something new from an unfamiliar face. So, he did not halt when the offer had been given. The length of his limbs carried him after the master of tales.

“You offered stories,” the warhound spoke to him with a small nod of his head and a ghostly smile that curled the edges of his dark lips. “I was raised on many different kinds of tales. I should like to hear what you have to share.” His smoky voice was not hostile or filled with the pride that ran through his veins. Instead, he seemed welcoming in his voice. The hollow glimmer of his gaze was latched tightly to the features of Cortez. He waited to see if he would be the only one to listen to the stories.