Ashlands Renaissance and Fantasy Festival grounds stands on 12 acres of pristine, rural land in the hilly woods two hours outside of town. Most folks don't know anything about it at all, as the small festival really only advertises online and through word of mouth. The ads one is likely to come across speak mostly of it as a place to find magic, mystery, and love. You could have sworn the ad said "thru autumn," but the sign on the gate says, "come back next spring." With a sigh, and a resigned heart full of disappointment, you turn to get back into the car and head home. "Just like that, you're givin' up?" The voice belonged to a wolf, who looked to be in his 30s. He leaned against the information shack doorway, thumbs hooked in his front pockets and shirt open to show off his snowy chest fur, and the darker trail that plunged from his navel to his beltline. "You look like you've been in that car at least a couple hours. Why don't you let me show you around at least? Show you what you missed? Maybe show ya what you have to look forward to...?"