Golden Glade a noble band of warriors

“I would imagine they take the form of fire in the trees,” he mused, pointed his muzzle toward the sky with a sweep of his sea-foam gaze toward the budding leaves. Maples like that had never grown in the northern territories. Jorrvaskr had consisted of very little foliage, but instead had stretching landscapes that seemed to run for years. When he had first departed his homeland, Kodlak had thought that he might never see the end of the frozen wastes. It had come as a great shock to him to discover that there was very much of the world that he did not know. The Nord was not opposed to this; his travels had paved the way for new interests and for his knowledge to flourish against the harsh realities of what the earth had to offer to the wild kind that lived upon it. Wild was all that he knew; the great Wuuthrad of the wolves of Jorrvaskr was contrived of all savage things in the world and placed in a humble, dusted shell.
 
Niamh inquired about the lights that he had spoken of before. Kodlak offered her a simple smile and pulled his gaze down from the skies and the birds that pranced overhead. The light of his gaze wandered to her and he drew his salmon colored tongue along his lips with a thoughtful expression. “The northern lights of Jorrvaskr are unlike anything you would ever see in a lifetime. They dance overhead in a night sky – great pillars and twines of tropical green and galactic violet – but they are a rare sight. We would often sit beneath the stars and wait for the northern lights to arrive so that we could chase them. They could never be caught, but it was a tribute to Hircine; the god of the hunt.” The more he spoke of his home, and their customs, the more he had started to miss the tundra where he had been made. It was good to share his experiences with those around him, but he wondered if he would ever get the chance to see the dancing lights again.