Blacktail Deer Plateau mine was a religion and happiness was a fact

She spoke candidly and fondly of her past then, and her observation of him had gone unnoticed. Like many stories, he found himself fascinated with the origins of those he came across. Social constructs deemed the appropriateness of such talk, and had they been less acquainted than they were, Mordecai would have attempted to avoid the intrusion for the sake of his interest. At least to some extent, anyway. The tinge of foreign tongues lent to her a sheen he had not expected; he lingered silently for a moment with moss clenched between jaws before he placed it gently to the side.

"Máthair mhór? I wouldn't have guessed that you spoke a different language," he commented. It felt strange for him to repeat her pronunciation, though his own was far from flawless. There was weigh to it, though the meaning of such was not imbued with some sort of power, as truly it was a title of some sort. As he peered around the trunk to follow where she had gone, he rattled on.

"I never got to know my grandmother, though I am told she was quite something. My father always spoke of her." And then again, so did his mother, though more oft of her own parents than his fathers. While he had never pried into his own lineage, Mordecai had the distinct notion that the pair of grandparents had never really met. "She was fond of the stars at night, knew the constellations and stories behind them. But she mostly spent her time as a leader of a pack or two too."