King Elk Forest Try as she might, not a drop will she get

Ravinger arches himself somewhat awkwardly to scratch at one of his ears with a back foot.  He gives his King a look while he's at it, clearly judging his cousin for her appreciation of the two seasons he's just vocalized he dislikes. "Red is fine and all, but how about some green?" he laments theatrically, leaning into his usual dramatics.  Ravinger falls onto his back once more, sending up dead wisteria and other leaves.  Something gets in his nose, and he sneezes it out.  That's all this weather was at the end of the day:  a promise of more sneezing.

"Did you like the song I composed for you, cousin?  I could do another verse.  One about your new life as a King," as usual, he doesn't wait for her response. "Brown of pelt and orange of eye / led her wolves to the end of nigh / thought she might a forest find / a place who held the High Elk's hind." The tune is merry, as most of his songs are.  It isn't often he's in a sullen enough mood to compose mournful ballads.