Fox's Glade Quam bene vivas refert non quam diu

"For every great and remarkable person there is a constellation. For every good soul there is a star," Osprey told Sarah, Wraen and Terance, tired four-month-olds, who had curled up next to her and had listened to one of the usual evening stories. Wraen, being the smallest and most exhausted, had already dozed off, but she and Terance were still up. "Just as constellations are made of several stars, no person's road to the greatness is ever done alone. There are many people that stand behind them and often the history remembers the name of a leader, forgetting that his soldiers have been his pillars."

There had been other evenings like this, but she was drawn away from the memory lane, when someone addressed her. She blinked her eyes few times, shook her head and got to her feet to be within the same eye level of the pale-ghost-like she-wolf. Were it not for the warmth she radiated, Sarah would have believed her to be a ghost. "Diaspora?" she repeated, taking her time to mull over this word in her mind, trying to recall, if Terance had mentioned any pack of such name. But nothing came up. "Never heard of them. Lost Creek hollow is that way," she beckoned in the direction of her pack's residence, in case this name rang a bell to the stranger and could be used as a landmark to steer her on the right path again.