Like disco lemonade

There was a stillness to the place that promised history, yet no lips could speak it. The Endore was momentarily entrenched in her imagination, fabricating great battles fought in the crux of the valley and leaders of legend. It was unfortunate that her imagination eclipsed reality so greatly; she would have laughed, had she known what had really happened here, that the pack's highest ranked had abandoned it without word and left it to die. The Vale seemed worth more than that, and she fancied that it was.

She had never been much of a listener in her youth, but Ptarmigan was a secret historian in some ways. She knew all the history of her family's pack, the Winterheart Forest pack, up until the time the wolves left their homeland. The exact names were foggy aside from those relatives who had been drilled into her head, as they always were in memories, but she could recount every important event from its founding to its quiet death at the hands of a volcano. This was something no one knew about Ptarmigan, who acted very much like she knew nothing at all.

When she came out of her imaginative trance with the conclusion that the Vale's secrets were just too grand to ever be known, it was to see a trim white female padding toward her, calling tremulously across the distance. The Ouroboros Alpha paused, twisting her ears forward and calling back, “do you know the legends of this place?” It was a brief and rare thirst for knowledge, though it could easily become something much more sinister if given the chance.