The Dainty Arts

Aros sighed heavily and followed in the pale wolfess' trail. Where they headed, he did not know. The woods around them was filled with the sharp smelling of tree blood and the musk of hundreds of small births. Flowers bloomed, bees swarmed, and the sunlight was pleasant. And where was Aros? Slogging through the mud to pick gods thrice damned flowers. He grumbled under his breath, sounding more like an elder than a spry young buck. If Impra could hear him, he didn't mind. She should remember that he was no lackey, scarred muzzle or no! As he commiserated with the voices inside his head, he did not realize the scents in the air. When the white lupe before him finally came to a stop, Aros looked up to find the pair in the most beautiful meadow he had ever seen.




On all sides it was bordered by tall sentinel pines, dark green and glorious. Before them sweet smelling grasses baked in the young sun, and from their depths burst thousands of pods of color. He saw colors he had never experienced before, and the wall of scent filled his head with memories of fonder years and summers long past, and strangely of his mother. He saw roses, sunflowers, daises, trillium of all kind, and hundreds more he did not know the name for. The air rushed from his lungs is a surprised woosh, and he could not keep his eye's from widening. "Wow,"
he whispered.




"Speech," Thoughts,