Hideaway Strath stjärnbild

Sometimes when he was alone (and he was alone quite a lot) Rosenskärm would imagine for himself the voices of the stars. He knew what they looked like from afar, of course, and some watchers he had learned from believed each light was of a different color - so why not a sound, too? Why not a voice? Others even claimed to hear them; stars, speaking! Singing, even!

Not once had he heard them himself, but Rosenskärm was still young. He was still learning. There was no hope of hearing anything when he was so distracted by his body's shivers, or the feeling of being soggy with rainwater; but 'lo, from the dark of the wood, a voice!

He was clustered as close to the tree's trunk as he could manage when he heard it, and turned, and saw — well, in the dark everyone looked the same to him. A wolf; but not just any wolf, he thought. This one was different. Smaller, softer, and arrayed by blacks and whites, the likes of which Rosenskärm found bizarre - but not in a bad way.

Oh, underbart! He erupted happily, studying her face. She was covered in black clouds, and he thought — constellations? There, built right in to her coat!

Ah, hah, I — I am sorry, he remarks a moment after, chattering teeth making things a little bit difficult. His accent is somehow thicker in the cold. I am little lost man, ja? The regn, ah, the natten... He sighs, looking around at the shadows and the dripping world around them both.

May I stay a little time, here? To wait for regn. Snäll? His tail sways behind him a few tentative beats, while Rosenskärm's face blooms in to a nervous, hopeful expression.