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

she has not been told a story in more moons than she can count; it is easy to lose herself in the man's artful words. it is a love story, not the kind she was every particularily interested in as a girl but now drudges up the familiar grief, but with it, something new. not perfection, as the storyteller desribes, but perhaps for another half, as once was Aviana, Aditya, lost now to the past. 

the storyteller paused and his eyes flickered between them; not the smoldering embers of her own but something sharp, colourless and piercing. she is caught for a moment, their sharpness juxtaposed by the softness of the man's words and pelt. but then the heavy gaze of Ford registered as his hung on her features for a long moment. her own answer briefly waylaid as she shifted her muzzle a fraction and matched it for an instant. he spoke and her gaze returned to the storyteller, own words filling the silence left by the warhounds. "nothing perfect is without jealousy." she knew it well, though the exact act of devestation she knew would surely follow had her intruiged enough to keep her attention fixated on Cortez, the third audience member more or less ignored at present.