Wapun Meadow casanova

Renoir felt the stirrings of anxiety as the dark wolf explained, and he could not place why. This man was fine company, and his home was not far from here - a rival to the rose wolves, surely - and yet, Ren was not sure he wanted to venture in to the mountains. His body was suited to the plains, to the meadows such as this, and not the harsh lifestyle accompanied with toiling on a mountainside. Yet he was eager to know more; the mention of an underground forest, foreign and odd though it sounded, rooted in his mind. How beautiful it sounded! He wondered what sort of strange beauty could be discerned there -- but caught himself before the thoughts became more concrete.

It sounds anchante, he would not correct himself as he slipped in to his common tongue, more comfortable there for the time being. The tone of that single word should have been enough to elucidate upon, and give Noctura an idea of how he felt. But then Renoir fell quiet, ponderous, and his next words - though soft and sweet - were tinged with a faint sadness. Mwen regrèt, I am no mountain man. Perhaps one day he would see that magical forest and visit the place, but it would not be his home. At least not at this time - he was much more contented by the meadow.