Overture Downs field of dandelions

Draped in a pelt, Akavir studied the woman for a moment, at least until she spoke. The friendly demeanor was a welcome sight, surely—and vaguely, he believed she carried the same scent of Silvertongue—Riverclan.

“Morning,” he offered, his tone gruff in comparison to her own vocals. And then he became excessively awkward—because he was the farthest thing from a diplomat he could think of. “You’re from Riverclan, yeah?”