In the end, it was a youth who greeted her at the edge of the skull-rimmed landscape. Odd, that one so young would venture to the borders of his homeland unaccompanied. Sandstone (Festivity's mother) had never allowed her daughter such freedoms, not until she was older and properly wary. A tall order for the outgoing, curious child and she suspected the coyote who met her might would be a cut from the same cloth. Perhaps he had escaped his keeper as Festivity had done countless times. Or perhaps he had none, and his protection was left in hands of the clear threat posed by the long lonely line of dessicated wolf heads. In any case, she meant no harm and thus felt no reserve in continuing their conversation.
"There are not very many of us," she replied softly. A sad but fortunate truth, because society could only support a limited amount of those whose trade did not produce tangible things. At the same time, Festivity believed in the importance of her work, of telling tales and teaching old wisdoms, lest they be forgotten. She also followed this path out of passion. Her place of diplomat in her father's caravan might have been more practical, but this was what she loved. Whether she was a teacher or simply a night's entertainment, it mattered little. "It means that I tell stories, young one. Lots and lots of stories."
Festivity had, by now, dropped the flowery formalities and exchanged her manner for one more appropriate for his age. Yet she tried not to condescend - nobody liked to be talked down to, even children. "Mead is a type of alcohol. It's probably a good thing that you don't know what it is yet." She smiled then, endeared by his commentary on her coloration. Pulling her cloak to one side, she displayed the calico patterned spots of her hide. "I inherited these colors from my mother. She was taller though, and very beautiful."
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