Sun Mote Copse mention our ghosts, our knotted spines

It goes better than Mato thinks it might: Delight listens and murmurs the word “trades” in a contemplative tone. Mayo’s ears cup forth and he offers the dark male a smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. “I don’t require new members to have trades upon acceptance,” Mato assures him, unsure if it was a worry and if that was why the other male speaks his words with a bit of defiance. Of course it is paramount that at least one trade is earned but aside from that Mato will not be overly fussed. Their climb within the hierarchy depends solely upon them, removing potential favoritism from Mato’s path and will allow him to regard things objectively. “Then welcome to Tindómë, Delight.” It was not nearly so grand for he is distinctly lacking a territory but he feels that it is close. He feels it in the quiver of his whiskers, in the marrow of his bones. They are close to finding it. Just a little further west, he thinks. “We will keep going west in hopes of finding the territory we will claim for Tindómë.” It has been his driving force thus far. “but we are close to finding our home, I can feel it.” The druid is quick to assure his companions.