Versailles doesn't quite understand the need for talk, the need to fill the silence with words that lead to little more than empty casualties as a way of passing time. She's always preferred the silence, and has been entombed in it for the better part of her life ever since her mother died - and her mother, she'd always preferred the company of quite too. Too many times, a more talkative young Versailles was reprimanded for unnecessary words uttered under her breath, already too quiet from disuse - be quiet, Versailles, words do not mean much in the great hunt.

The words have since been hammered into her heart, one that she carries with the memory of her mother's death. Much of her personality is a derivative of her mother's own characteristics, after all; she had taken it upon herself to carry the mantle after she'd lost her. It's a gift as much as it is a burden, for her mother's discipline has allowed her to thrive alone in the wilds as much as it impedes her ability now to form connections outside of those that have already been connected by the hands of fate. Still, she tries her best to make those connections on her own... not that that has done her any good.

She approaches the group anyway, dips her head in greeting before settling down a small distance away from Bubonicplague. Versailles doesn't know him but appreciates the location he's picked out - a beautiful blooming meadow, something that should belong in one of the picture books Marg had given her. She tucks her paws underneath her chest and closes her eyes. Maybe Moon, as amusing as he can be sometimes, will get the hint and lie down with them.