At the river bank, near the scar of the Valley, the Yellow Seour was fishing alone. 

Normally he didn't fish, he wasn't the biggest fan of fishing but for some odd reason he'd had a feeling that he should go fishing. Normally when he got one of these silly feelings it preceded a dream of his past. This was no different than most of those times, a dream of his lost sibling that he had all but forgotten popping into his mind while he slumbered. The vision of the darker colored wolf playing in the water and throwing fish out like it was the easiest thing in the world. It wasn't that the Seour was bad at fishing, he caught more than enough to feed himself but it took a little more concentration and effort to be successful with the water distorting everything like it did. 

Achilles was standing still in the water, staring down at the rippling surface. He'd been like this for a few minutes, waiting for the fish to forget he'd invaded their space. When they finally began to swim closer once again, he picked a nice fat one out and watched it closely. For a while the stupid thing was just out of reach and Achilles dared not move lest he frighten the others but eventually it came closer. It was so very close now and he was happy with the size of his prey. He was leaning down towards the water, getting ready to snap it up when he heard something move close by, a branch snapping and the rustle of foliage. 

Someone was coming and they'd frighten away his kill.

He lunged suddenly, teeth tearing into the slippery thing as if flailed, but caught. He grunted as it fought for dear life, stepping out of the river, water dripping from his underbelly to soak the grass below. He glared in the direction of his visitor before looking at the fish. With a short amount of consideration he tossed the fish at their paws, "Here, it was too small for me." The water must have really screwed with his perception, it had looked so much bigger. 

He growled softly before he began to run his tongue along his fur to chase off as much of the water as he could manage.

He really hated fishing...and he cursed his brother for invading his dreamscape.

You probably think you know a lot about storybooks. 

(Hello, audience. It's been some time since we last spoke. I left you tapping on glass. A watchface, a mirror. I did what I could but I don't get to decide what happens with other people's time. All that was a while ago now. I imagine some things have changed since then. And some things haven't changed since then. I am making a new story to share with you. I hope you like her.) 

Only a few butterflies still lingered in the castle den, except for the ones that had died, scattered on the ground like tossed confetti. The stone room was full of soft things and love. Full of warmth and bodies. The room was full of something thin and red and tangled. The room was filled with stupid dumb kids and all the blank pages their lives would fill. Some footfalls scampered over the stone floor in the direction of the light and cold.

You probably think you know about "main characters" and "plot arcs" and the like. What makes a main character? What makes one protagonist the focus, the one whose thoughts and opinions are worth hearing? What makes some stories so important while others are boring? Is there just some special something that sets a person, a story, apart from the others, makes it special, makes it magic? 

A girl stepped out into winter from the warmth of the castle walls. Her breath curled in hot steam, like the breath of a dragon or the tail of a comet. White speckled paws punctured right through that clean crisp layer of frost, a pure and unbroken landscape immediately ruined by her careless treading. There was no second moment spared for thought, the wolf was a streaking meteor of black and white, tearing through the snow and revealing the dead grass beneath with her skidding, stumbling, running. She dashed for the highest point she could find - a big black log dusted in powdery white. It wasn't as tall as the castle. The girl looked up at the spires of the thing and frowned, as though wondering how it had the audacity to make her look small by comparison. 

Pretty much everyone thinks of themselves as the main character. 

Fiery blue eyes surveyed her mother's domain. The domain of her people! Stories have to have settings after all. It was blanketed now in gentle ice and white dust and a gray-blue sky and the weight of a thousand metaphors. The setting was nicely dressed in stories, every single one important and beautiful and imperfect. Everything was quiet, but not silent - the wind didn't howl but it murmured secrets. The brook didn't babble but it hummed a soft melody, trickling notes peaking out of the stillness of the ice. Quiet and calm as winter tended to be. That'd change soon enough, the girl figured, knowing her family. 

She and her siblings had been born among blue butterflies and revelry. They came from a long lineage of flowers. They still had all the time in the world, and the color of their blood was still secret and special. The girl was not interested in being a shadow of someone else's story. She did not care about being a princess and she definitely didn't care about long, tangled strands of red thread. Real lives don't get arcs or stories, at least not neat ones. Arcs are for things that move burning across the sky, not for creatures of flesh and blood and love and flaws that crawl across the ground and can only look upward. Hope was going to find her own way. 

She raised her voice to the air and her nose to the north and shouted out some words to whoever was near enough to hear her. This is where a new story begins. She wagged her tail. She grinned. She barked - ! 

"I'M HERE, MOTHERFUCKERS!" 

Note: I have approval to have Caithri wash up on the shores of the beach just north of the Fangs of Cetus from an Alpha. Despite that, this is still an acceptance. 8)

OOC: Open to one other! Set during the winter solstice. Spooky things or so homesick shes seeing things?