Big Salmon Lake northern soul

There was a small tug at the corner of his lips at the 'head removers' thing, a momentary flash of a subdued smirk but no more than that.  He was still, in his eyes, trying to recover from his earlier outburst.

I'm not too picky.  But honestly, he really couldn't help himself.  There was no way Quixote would ever win an award for being properly compused.  He was simply not wired to be some classy dude.  An idiot-free land of... Hell if I know.  Something without the geezers from my old pack breathing down my neck deciding for me what I'm going to do with my life.  He was rather bitter about that fact too, apparently.  Even though they'd chosen most of the same things he otherwise would have on his own, it was that remaining percentage that made him take the chance when the world warned him to go.  It wasn't completely irrational for him to expect to be able to do what he wanted within the orders given by leadership.

Restlessly he took a few steps, keeping at a set distance from her but merely unable to keep still. If I knew more of what I wanted, I'd probably have found it already.  But most of those I've come across have had about as much clue about what's around here as I have.  It's not made things easy. A brief pause before he tossed the verbal football back to her, I suppose there must be something awesome about Moonspear to keep you there, so what'd that be?  It was perhaps borderline playful, but since Quixote wasn't sure who he was playing with or what the rules were, he was pretty conservative with continuing.