The song she's singing can be heard here.[/html]
The shift in the air was subtle, but she felt it. Part of this was likely due to her pelt, which was thinner than the thick plush coat of a wolf—her fur was long and more closely resembled hair, save for an undercoat that (thankfully) kept her from freezing. Still, it was far too early for her to begin wearing anything beyond the garnet colored skirt, and so she did not. Rosie was less eager about winter, but she did so look forward to sitting indoors during those long nights and busying herself. She would never be able to paint or write as some of her fellow Artisans could, but she had other talents.
Among them was singing, which she was doing now. She often sang, using it as a way to calm screaming children, and found it relaxing herself. Her voice was high and lyrical, and carried over the cool breeze. “La petite poule grise, quallait pondre dans l'église,” she sang, eyes half closed, walking without a true destination in mind. Her dainty paws carried her gently, and had she true feminine curves the sway of her bony hips might be more apparent. As it stood, only her white tipped tail gave away her motion, swinging to and fro behind her. “Pondait un petite coco, que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud…”
Each step brought with it the faint jingle of bells. These little treasures glimmered against the skirt, but the metal was dull and tarnished, much like her necklace. There was little left in the world that sparkled, and even though she looked for it, Roselle lacked the naivety of a child. Everything gold eventually, inevitably, faded.
“Létait une petite poul noir, quallait pondre dans l'armoire. Pondait un petite coco, que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud…”
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