Deepwood Weald i love to watch the castles burn, these golden ashes turn to dirt

He caught her words as she fell into line behind him, their easy pace far more leisure than the steps that had brought them near. As experienced as he was with the woodlands, the weald did in fact hold a set of its own difficulties; the overgrowth for one, though in time and shift of season he would see it flatten and become less sprawling with traffic. Dirge stuck primarily to the trails worn in by prey, where untold generations found the better terrain for their own ease... and likewise to suss out where they were like to house themselves.

"Your humble plateau not fond of visitors then?" he probed, curious if her comment spoke of dissent. It wasn't terribly uncommon for packs to keep their guard up at all times, but rather unquestionably wise in truth. He was oblivious to their history, unknowning that they had reason to do—so had Moonspear, for that matter.

Another comment off his tongue interjected before her response: "At least they'd come looking for you though. Some packs would sooner believe you've abandoned them." Thankfully, he hadn't quite that experience. He had dome the abandoning, relatively speaking, but at least he afforded Hydra the decency of staying true to his intentions and now it was all solidly behind him.