Honeyed Pasture king forever, ceasing never

Moorhen's ears flickered in a motion like a shrug. Being on an island didn't feel any different from being on the mainland. There were some that believed the mainland was merely a larger island, anyway. The only real difference was that she always felt very safe and protected on the isle. But she was sure Jarilo felt the same about his mountain. Moorhen had felt the same about the stone den where she'd nursed from Doe, back in the days before she and her siblings had become burdens and annoyances.

The leader stole a glance at her companion out of the corner of her eye. "Wind chase," she said, bringing them back to the earlier topic of conversation. "When there's a scent on the wind you have to follow, they say that the Hounds of the Wind are - you follow them to your 
skjebne. Fate. They are the children of the trickster god, and when the wind barks high and angry is when the cruelest fates can be found."

Moorhen shot Jarilo a sheepish glance, thinking she had not explained very well, and also that it was not a very compelling story. "But we follow a soft wind," she assured him.