Moonspear fear is the hand that pulls your strings

The revelation of history was not quite something Dirge had anticipated, yet he took it all in with a turn of his ear as though he would miss something crucial, some little crumb of information that would be oh so important later. It was almost involuntary, this response; it was the flash and sparkle of flint off steel that stirred at the embers of a curiosity he had not yet snuffed out altogether. He wondered in the flicker of an instant if his own father had been from such a place, that there was some sort of connection. But he doubted his father to be cut from the same gib as Charon, and would not press the interest. He adopted the distraction instead.

"I'd imagine they're not cut out for all that wet sand," he said, too simply and flat to be done. "But perhaps some find it not to their tastes, instead believing in creature comforts of sanctity and security. The coast does not afford many those options, least of what I've seen. A grotto or salty cavern here and there doesn't really compare to a mountain or forest, or a combination of the two." Woodland for cover and game, mountains for mapping and fresh water; the list went on, no doubt known to the two.

"Of course I'm sure the reality is that they've taken on a fool's errand and barely have time to sort themselves, let alone lead a pack. Loftly goals and such, rather than necessity. Take a bit from either column and you've got a recipe for collapse at one point or another. Minds and attitudes change too," he went on, only to end on the point that had lead him back there. He would have liked to hold onto the weald, naturally, but two wolves a pack did not make, and even more so when the reality of it had become only one.

"But pride goes before a fall, isn't that what they say?"