Northstar Vale daimort

Dwarfed, again;
the yearling drew alongside her, speaking fond of homespun mem'ry and a mother who preferred goldenrod to treat her then-whelp with. The faintest trace of amusement laced the shorn lips, though not at all to condescend—  "In her honor, then, we will look for goldenrod, too."  Another feathering of the tail, then:  "Neither did mine. Usually. Then again, upon excursions, sometimes our huntsmen would wager who of them could garner ze most feathers."  And it may have very well been for distraction, for the frustrations from elusive quarry ...

Her tread became more pensive; ears casting away with some uncertainty, as she could not yet see tale-tell of either herb they now foraged for. Soon, she hoped, or she might resort to stilling the flow of laceration with mud, of all things.