Lost Creek Hollow until my body 'gan to say oh-oh oh-oh oh-oh

Mona.

Much to Deshyr's quite visible chagrin, she could find nothing terrible— nothing monstrous— about the scarlet caregiver before her. Not the name given to her, or the tone with which it had been given; not her brilliant coloration or her equally as enchanting eyes.

The girl looked embarrassed then. She was in the presence of a Disney Princess and had branded herself a fairy-tale antagonist: the portentous native with her nose upturned to the kind, destitute aliens. As much as she wanted to hate this wolf and shove her in a box of things she had chosen over her short life to naively disavow, her own resolve on the matter crumbled as guilt made the fledgling Frostfur view herself, for the first time, in an unpleasant light.

Junior! She wanted to introduce herself proudly— she could see herself standing there, chin up and chest out— but all that bubbled up from beneath crumpled ears and an apologetic aversion of blue-gem eyes, was a meek and regrettable: "Deshyr."