Maître Plumet, tall and dignified, surveys the scene with a chef’s intensity, his beak twitching above the simmering cauldron of broth. Around him, Crispin, a sprightly stork with a penchant for jokes, snatches freshly plucked noodles from a hanging rack, tossing them in the air with gleeful abandon. Seraphine, the precise and competitive sous-chef, meticulously arranges ceramic bowls, her eyes narrowed in focus. The centerpiece: a whole cooked wolf, its fur burnished and limbs folded in peaceful repose, lies on a lacquered platter, bathed in aromatic steam. "I bet I can sling these noodles higher than the rafters tonight!" "Only if you want them tangled in your feathers, Crispin. We’re honoring tradition, not courting chaos." "Enough! The broth must be seasoned just so—pass me the star anise," his tone reverent, eyes fixed on the wolf.

Maître Plumet leads the ritual, wings outstretched, intoning ancestral phrases. Crispin can barely contain his excitement, hopping from leg to leg, while Seraphine maintains solemnity, her gaze unwavering. Together, they sprinkle the herbs, each movement deliberate and meaningful. "Every year, the wolf’s spirit blesses our broth with courage. Let’s not rush the final step," "But I’m starving—my stomach is singing louder than our rituals!"

Maître Plumet arranges the wolf atop the noodles, talons trembling ever so slightly. The ritual demands perfection: the wolf must rest in the center, surrounded by scallions and eggs, the broth poured without a ripple. "May courage and joy fill our bowl," "And may the noodles never stick together!" "If you’d stirred them properly, Crispin, that wouldn’t be a worry,"

Crispin dives in first, slurping noodles with gusto, broth dribbling down his beak. Seraphine tastes with measured delight, nodding approval. Maître Plumet closes his eyes after the first sip, savoring the layered flavors. "Magnificent! The wolf’s leg is so tender, it practically dances on my tongue!" "The broth is bold, but not overpowering. This is our best yet," "Tradition endures because we give it life—and laughter,"

Crispin recounts his noodle-tossing exploits, eliciting snorts and cackles. Seraphine admits she almost forgot an ingredient, prompting mock astonishment. Maître Plumet raises his cup, feathers fluffed in contentment. "May our feathers stay strong and our hearts light. Until next year’s feast," "Unless we get hungry before then!"

Seraphine gently extinguishes the last candle, while Crispin hums a tune. Maître Plumet pauses at the door, casting a fond glance back at the scene of their joy and ritual. "Let’s remember this night—every flavor, every laugh," "We will. It’s the heart of who we are,"