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The young bard perched on a branch of the large old oak, a small crowd arrayed around and below her. A cluster of fledgelings nestled close to their parents as they listened wide-eyed to the ballad being performed for them.

Willowbreeze was singing, as many a bard before her sang, a complex story-song of star-crossed love between young sentinels long ago. They were doomed, of course, in the original version of the song (as fictional lovers so often are)-- but with so many little ones in attendance, she decided she would give her listeners a happy ending. An ending, she thought, where the lovers did not die, disparing and apart, but where they rescued each other from every danger, lived in love, hunted and raised chicks.

Willow's eyes shone softly in the dim light, reflecting the diffuse moonlight. The sleepy sounds of cicadas and rustles of leaves accompanied the bard's sweet voice, her companion singing a wordless counter-melody and her talons softly tapping the rythm of her song on the sturdy branch of the oak.

It was a slightly overcast evening, with the moon haloed in whispy clouds and the scent of rain on the breeze. A perfect night for a story, a night when the impossible was almost believable, when the fantastic seemed as tangible as the trees.

Willow continued her song, soft and wistful, her wingtips lightly tracing expressive gestures in the air before her. She was absorbed in her performance, and the approach of two chestnut Sentinels went unnoticed. Her focus was on the song, the story, the attentive audience perched around her.

Drywood landed a little less gracefully next to the Storyteller, and finally saw the female that had been chosen for him.

She was quite lovely, no question about that. His gaze paused for a moment on her long tufts, but he couldn't help but notice how the sparse moonlight reflected off of the many different hues of brown in her feathers, or the clearness of her voice as it rose and fell in the telling of the tale.

Quite lovely indeed. She looked every bit the product of careful breeding that she was, and by the looks of it, she seemed perfectly unafraid to stand in the spotlight. Proud, even. And above all else, confident. So confident, before the eyes of so many people.

Ear tufts pretty much sleeked back against his skull, Drywood did not quite make the same confident impression at the moment. However, the concentration in his gaze as he studied every aspect of his future mate was remarkably intense.

After a brief moment, he realized that he had forgotten to breathe for quite a while, and pulled in a deep breath. At about the same time, he also realized that Hollysong and his Chirop had said something, possibly to each other, but on the off chance that he had missed something important, he tore his gaze away from the performing Bard and turned his head toward the Storyteller.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, recapturing something of his usual amiable smile. "You were saying?"

“I was just saying that young Willow is quite good. Lovely performance.” Hollysong answered slightly taken aback by the Apothecary’s sudden smile. Drywood’s first reaction hadn’t gone unnoticed and the older Chestnut was keenly watching his recovery with such intensity that one might wonder if he was trying to see through Drywood’s skull.

The Storyteller also recovered quickly and his gaze softened. He avoided glancing at Willow hoping that their eyes wouldn't meet. Direct eye contact might make her approach a little quicker than he was expecting and he wanted to buy a bit of time for Drywood so that the Apothecary would be ready (at least as ready as he was ever going to be) to receive the lady properly.

“So… Drywood. Surprised? Happy? Disappointed? What do you think… of her?” Holly asked patiently with fierce anticipation dancing in his golden eyes. Then his rough voice lowered to a whisper as he bent down to speak to the companion “Flut, ask the Bard to join us.”

As the Storyteller waited for Drywood’s response, the companion left the branch and the rhythmic sound of flapping wings grew fainter as he approached Willow.

“Hollysong the Storyteller requests the pleasure of your company.” He said quietly to Willow taking a polite bow as he settled on the same branch as the Bard.

Willow was hardly surprised when the small creature landed beside her. Her parus companion, much less verbal than Hollysong's messenger, chirped a greeting to the chirop.

"I'm honored." The young female spoke respectfully to the companion, as if to Hollysong himself, aware that her words could be recalled and repeated on command by the clever creature. She felt her wingtips trembling slightly, but brought herself under strict control.

Focus, focus.... It was, as he grandmother had said, the key to success. Willowbreeze did her best to focus on the task at hand, rather than, say, the odd gymnastics her stomach was performing, or the fact that her tail suddenly itched (as tails always would do at the most inopportune moments). The first step, she thought, was just to get herself over to the branch where Holly was perching with any sort of disaster. That seemed manageable enough.

She alighted gracefully, followed by Zephyr, and then flew the short distance to the pair of males. She landed without mishap, although with an odd sense of time moving in slow motion. It surprised her that when she looked at her intended mate she felt no particular emotion. There was no instant attachment, but no dismay or revulsion either. As she gave her feathers a quick post-flight straightening, she realized that now that it came down to the moment of truth, she wasn't even particularly nervous.

“Hollysong, an honor to see you again.” She dipped her head respectfully. “I hope you enjoyed the performance.”

Drywood's head felt really, really strange. As if he was thinking very hard and very fast, but the result of it was nothing but an expending emptiness. He heard the Storyteller's calming words and good advice, and they bounced around in the hollow of his mind like echoes in a hollow tree.

He could see the Bard as she - quite gracefully - left her perch and steered her wings toward the two of them, and two words that Hollysong gave him finally struck a familiar chord in him. Polite and friendly. Yes. He could feel his body relax and align itself to the well-practised attitude. Polite and friendly. He could do that. He had been doing it since fledglinghood. Polite and friendly. Even his face followed suit and formed into his ever-present amiable smile.

In returning to this familiarity of the body, he even felt a little better. His stomach still hurt and his head still seemed to be buzzing, but he felt as though he could think again. As the lady landed and he was introduced, he dipped into a bow that was only a slight bit too quick, and spoke in a voice that was only a slight bit too loud:

"A pleasure to meet you, my Lady." Hollysong's advice echoed around in his head, and he gratefully snapped one up as it passed before his mind's eye. "That was a lovely performance, um..." he hesitated for a second, his eyes flicking over in the direction of Hollysong as he scrambled for something else to say. He should complement her voice, shouldn't he? But he wasn't a bard, and he had serious doubts about his ability to judge music. He really didn't want to say the wrong thing. But he had to say something. Right now.

"You changed the ending." He blinked at himself. The story she had told was one that he believed he had heard a few times before, as a fledgling at least, but he was in no way certain that it was indeed the same one, or that he had been hearing her right, what with all the noise inside his head. He tilted his head a little to the side, and he added, almost apologetically: "...didn't you?"

Good, good.

It was a reasonable start. The Storyteller chooses not the interrupt the young sentinels and instead sits back and carefully examines their reactions. It is their time to shine now.

It worries Hollysong a little that there’s still a little too much tension in the air but it’s only natural after all. The Bard sounds even more confident than before (probably because they’re on her territory so to speak) but the Storyteller fears that sort of confidence might actually scare off the amiable Apothecary.