Little Goat Mountain a too-small mountain

Stigmata. Amsu tucked that name into his brain for later, in case he ever came upon the dark male again. He did not mind that Stigmata seemed to be making fun of his speech patterns. Such a thing was common for Amsu. He took it in stride and did not hold it against others. Actually, he pretty much didn’t hold grudges as a general rule. It went against the whole “peace-loving” attitude. It took a lot to get under his skin. 

His ears perked when Stigmata mentioned others, and then something called diaspora. “Diaspora,” he repeated, saying the word slowly as if sounding it out. “Have you lost your homeland like Amsu, then?” he asked, referring to the definition of diaspora as a group of people wolves who had dispersed from their homeland. His eyes dulled with sorrow as he thought back to the bloodshed of his youth. He hoped no one else had suffered such a fate. Perhaps Stigmata had come here looking for peace, as well.