Kintla Flatlands ₐｗₒₒₒₒₒ!

At first, there was one. Then two. Then five. Then ten, twenty, thirty; all directions, all pitches of voice. Peering out of her den, shuffling to the clearing just beneath the evergreen canopy, her ears flatten and a grimace sours her face.
It's so. Goddamn. Loud.
She wants to yell for peace and quiet, but something in her soul tells her not to, and for a while, she only listens, before her head is thrown back in song. First quiet, merely a whisper, until it crescendos into a thunderous call to the heavens above.
Singing was her namesake for a reason.