Nova Peak None of this is real enough, to take me from you.

Swirly clouds. Stag looked overhead, bemused. He couldn't imagine flowers in the sky, but for a moment he closed his eyes and tried anyway: thinking of little gardenias and bluebells and sunflowers as they frolicked across an endless expanse of blue..

Utter poppycock, but it brought a smile to his face all the same.  That smile faded when Phaedra confided of how their smell made her feel. Had Sagtannet truly fractured so thoroughly?

Onto favorite colors.. Stag thought of Wylla and closed his eyes again, thinking of that cheerless and shrewd yellow. He knew the color well, and for a moment, a fluttering stirred to life in his heart that confused and shamed him at once. His eyes opened and the feeling was gone.

"That's a good color. I like it too." Stag admitted, though he hoped his tone appeared platonic enough. "Winter blue.. it's a hard color. You'll know it when you're in the height of the coldest day you've ever lived, and you look up and the sky is bare and not a wisp of cloud to be seen.. and the snow is so white and cold against your toes -- a blue so bright and cold it makes you feel small and stings your eyes." Stag was made for the cold, and he lived for winter -- but he also knew winter came at a brutal cost. Often, their survival was even less guaranteed in the winter than it was in the other months. He hoped, for Phaedra, she might never know the cold bite of cruel winter -- and would instead, only know the good things. The open skies, the soft snow, the thrill of hunting elk -- all of these a wolf's rite of passage, just as dying in the cold was. "Maybe bluebells are that color when they're young? I don't know what a bluebell looks like."

The pair continued chatting until close to dusk; Stag's eyes were heavy but his heart was light as he escorted Phaedra back to the den. Taking it upon himself to sleep somewhere nearby, Stag was off in a dreamless sleep no sooner than his head hit the ground.