Larksong Grotto and walkin's what they'll do

Ah, how sad. Isabella had always loved nicknames. When you lived in such a tight-knit family unit, you were forced to come up with new, sometimes silly nicknames due to the lack of new content in the name department. He came forwards when she invited him, and Isabella smiled. She liked that: he seemed to be a polite man.

Should I be fond of you, Oren? she hummed. With a cheeky grin, she added: Maybe you should tell me your last name, just in case. Personally, my surname is Sparrowbeak, if we're going to be formal. Golden eyes met his—brown, greyer than her own chocolatey pelt, though brown nonetheless. A protectiveness of her own well-being swam beneath the surface, but the surface sparkled with humour.