Firefly Glen cutting shapes

Ah, nostalgia. That explained plenty. Granted, the nostalgia that Dirge carried to the present was not necessarily pleasant. There were aspects that were — petrichor, for instance; the heady mist from dried earth and bark of a hot summer accentuated by cool rains past — but by far, the nostalgia he carried was better considered as not being nostalgic at all. Still, he bobbed his head along with the words, though just as much in agreement as it was cogs turning.

"It is their season too," he said, falling silent. Soon thereafter would be midsummer and in its wake, the full rise of noisy cicadas to punctuate their evening hours. The tawny wolf longed to discover the secrets of the world after that, curious what their differences would be from the niche the Winterhearts had carved in the Sierra Nevada. But his mind did not decieve his heart — he knew better than to rush headlong through the lapse of time. There was little guarantee that he would even linger, not with the call of the wild still so loud in his listening ears.

His gaze settled back on the starlit canopy again. The placement of the stars seemed random to him. Nothing in particular leap out to him as they would have someone more educated; it was all a guise as he pieced together chains of action. Ostrega. A certain bitterness twisted up between his countenance; his visions of grandeur to escape and shed one name had only stirred up the shadow of another. But the silence drew on a bit too lengthy for his liking, and he cleared his throat.

"Your hobbies seem more intriguing than mine. When I was younger, I do believe I enjoyed pulling tails and the like." It was a cheeky addition, half a poor double entendre but not entirely untrue. He had pulled tails — his sisters. "I suspect you could imagine how well that went over."