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

Ford had captured her attention—stoic in presence, yet he still demanded attention in his silent manner. The ivory she-wolf trailed after him, curious of the sea master and the shifting tides of his life. Her own had changed quite a bit since meeting the dark wolf—her loyalty given to the wolves of Diaspora still a decision she held dear to her heart.

Unwilling to draw attention to herself, the exotic sylph crept a respectful distance from the one familiar wolf to her, though her emerald gaze studied the storyteller with open curiosity and bemusement. A gentle nod was given of the slender snout of the woman, her honey and white form lowering to relax upon the ground and take in the tale woven before them.

She held a fondness for stories and those who could weave them—an art she could not match. Yet as her mind attempted to picture the most perfect and beautiful couple in creation, she could not muster them—instead, she felt her heart flutter at the thought of the forgotten sister. The one seemingly left behind.