Moonspear princes who adore you

Kindle smirked to himself, quite liking the title of jester for his nephew. Certainly, he'd grown into a theatrical and dramatic young man. His father's influence, no doubt.

Treepie's stauch support of her friend kept him from saying anything more critical on the subject. If he was honest with himself, he knew he trusted the younger wolf to honor any commitment he made to the singer. And if Treepie was equally convinced of her own kin —

Well. They ought to plan a wedding. Or find a jester's hat, at least.

"We don't use the skins where I'm from," he said frankly, curious about the skill and tradition of it — but before he could meander through any more on the subject, the wolf beside him stiffened and gasped. He might've missed it if he hadn't half-turned toward her, having finally regained his breath enough to look her in the face.

"Treepie?" he asked, merely confused right at first. Alarm quickly replaced that feeling, but he hid it well enough. His thoughts spun like a rolodex for just a moment before he landed on a plan of action.

"You're alright, girl," he said, his voice firm and calm as he tried to nudge her away from the ledge, the ghost of his herding dog ancestors briefly taking over his body. "Let's set back a bit, though, alright?"