Sleeping Dragon bittersweet poetry

He could not recall with any amount of stunning detail his first dips into wintertime. But, he had grown in a different setup than Freyja had, with him far more concerned with jostling with others than really how the large pack fared. To him, young and naive surely at the same age she was now, he'd been a selfish creature that was not possessing half the thoughtfulness she graced him with. "It takes some getting used to," he replied, fluffing his furs accordingly at the mention of the cold; he'd been built to withstand well enough through the chills. He liked winter, but had weathered some bad times during them, leaving him stuck somewhere in-between preference.

"Ah, some." the Wocha nodded to her question paired with a subtle smirk "But probably not unlike yourself, what I know of Trigeda comes from the words of others -- Heda, mainly, plus what has come with her to here." And of course, this was only their first round of seasons so far. A fascinating trip, certainly. "I joined the commander in the the early days of Drageda only," he clarified, so that was more his area of expertise presently. Oftentimes it did not come up, but he knew it was obvious to those who knew Trigeda. He didn't speak their language so smoothly or freely and for much of their gatherings and ritual so far, he was still in a position to hang back and watch it unfold -- to observe and learn whatever he could because as his time here had proven, their lifestyle suited him.