Welcome to Gaia! ::

Sandwalker followed her nose to find this place, letting the acrid smoke guide her. The closer she got, the more burned husks of trees she saw, like signposts confirming that she was going the right way. It seemed... important, somehow, to make the long trek all the way back here.

She was aware of the fires that burn through, clearing out the undergrowth and dying trees to make way for new opportunities, but she had never really experienced it like this before. If there was a year that needed to be cleansed, it was this one. The floods, the cold. So many kin died. The ashes in the water stained her fur black. The mound was a mess, and Sandwalker took in a breath to see so many different kin here, together. She felt compelled to join in to make it right again.

"I only know it in passing. This is my first time really. After this... We'll both be experts!" She nodded firmly, tramping the branch down a little more. "I do like it like that. Since everything else is so... moved. This is so natural. Yes! We can build around it." She turned her head slightly. "You know, Windy, I thought you would have known about the fire festival, because of your name. It's so suggestive of flames. ...But what do I know?" She turned and frolicked behind him. "As for my name... Well, thank you first off. I'm rather fond of who I am. I figure, just because I can't find a trail to travel doesn't mean I can't make my own. It just takes a little getting lost to find your destination. That's how I look at it at least." It made perfect sense to her. She was never truly lost. She was always right where she was. It was everything else that couldn't be found.



"But there are lots here who would listen. Isn't this gathering about the telling of tales and the singing of songs and.... what, the rebirth of something by fire? Or... I... Well, I'm not in full understanding of what you of the swamp do. But it really sounded like fun! If you had a tale to tell, or a song to sing, I'd be an avid listener. I could even teach you to dance in return for a song or a story that would fill me in on what is going on here! It really isn't that hard, if you're willing." There was no shame in not knowing how to dance. Right always thought his brother couldn't dance. Obviously, he was much better at dancing then Left was. He was better at everything really, because Right was just that fabulous.

"Culinary delights!" He'd exclaimed as they strapped on their wares. "From all corners of the swamp! If this isn't an event that requires our presence," and the presence of the Rise & Co. patriarch, "then I really don't know what is." And so he and his right-hoof buck, along with his (two sulking and one thankfully willing) sons, were on their way to the festival. The adults (he still thought of his children as...well, children) were laden with full-sized offerings - mostly delicately dried and crisply salted meats - and a few samples, but most of the latter were the youths' duty today. Rise led the delegation proudly, scanning the scene as they arrived.

The teal buck eyes the doe with a distinct lack of warmth in his gaze: his own eyes are a brilliant sky blue and glow faintly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His dog is rather more friendly. Seeker wags her tail at the doe, feathers rattling. It makes Flint sigh. "Yes, but -- why." The question is rather flat. Certainly any kimeti from the swamp would know what Ghost Thistle's mound is, but -- Flint has not a clue.

Savager seemed more at ease now that his partner was, and managed to do no more than fidget, even surveying the eaglehound with only wariness, not blatant hostility. As for Edge, she was intrigued by this buck. He clearly wasn't from this part of the swamp, nor well traveled, nor perhaps even well socialized because none of the kin had yet to question the rebuilding of the mound, not even herself. This close, she saw that the necklace he was wearing was made of coral and shell, ocean things, yet his scent was mainly that of swamp...

"It is a historic meeting place," she explained, "Kin-built and kin-maintained, the site of many a festival, usually less productive than this one." She eyed him appraisingly then, asking what she truly wanted to gauge "You are not from around these parts, are you?"

Not unsocialized -- just unfriendly. Flint does not often find himself enjoying the company of others; there are only one or two people on the beach whose company he grudgingly enjoyed at all. He tosses his head, and his hair patters against the side of his skull, still salt-coarsened. "No," he says, "I'm from the beach," which marks him as an obvious Tidewalker. The leanness of his frame and the sleekness of his fur is another tell, once he mentions his heritage. He speaks as if this is all obvious, pauses a moment, and then adds, as if he had to honestly remind himself to do it, "I'm Flint. This is a festival?"

The first thing that came out of Best was a snicker at the doe's adoring swoon - he had a smirk on his face, but his gaze was hard and critical. So, Killing Moon had been seeing a doe on the side. He was already inherently suspicious of the unfailingly flawless brother whom Left adored so (though they did get along by lack of proof otherwise), and thus instantly wary of this 'Ember'. His face fell grim in his thoughts - Well, he considered, how now, Left? Best stood his ground, unmoved and unmoving, and did not speak.