Willfur
He's relieved to see her smile, to be taken at face value and without suspicion for once. Most Novians are guarded, distrustful, always demanding why and for who when offered even the most casual of kindnesses. Having to gain their trust he regards as a right of passage, and once accomplished, an honor to hold close, but the frequency with which his pleasantness is met by hostility and accusation does wear on the mule's good nature at times.
Having done nothing to deserve such treatment or to be held at such a distance himself, it's difficult not to become resentful in answer, but whenever the feeling begins to pester at his senses - and he watches for it, carefully - long before it can take a firm hold in his mind, he asks himself what might have taught these names and faces to be so hard, how long must they have had to go around with backs bristled and teeth clenched. It seems like an exhausting way to live, and lonely.
"The pleasure is all mine! Willoughby and Willfur." He grins, turning to square up beside the mare with neck arched and ears standing tall at attention, all decorum observed as he escorts his newfound partner to the center of the meadow, the silver bell tied into his tail chiming gently against his hocks with each jaunty step of the parade.
"I know a few simple steps, but this is your show, Miss Willoughby. I'm only here to add a little diversity." Winking, he flaps his long ears once and crosses to the opposite end of the flower-ringed space with knees snapping high in a bouncing passage. Once there, he pauses, hind legs bent and ready to spring him up in any direction. He might not be able to perfectly mirror the girl - in fact, he most certainly won't be - but he can try for an earnest approximation in any case. It's all in good fun, after all.
"talk talk talk"
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