Wapun Meadow endlessly barbaric

When Wylla descended from the mountains, driven from Diaspora's claim by the need to recruit, she wasn't expecting much. For whatever reason, most of the souls that crossed the mountains didn't find themselves to Diaspora's door, nor did they make a pledge of membership to Mahler's pack. She chose to leave the mountains altogether.

She wasn't expecting for her ears to perk at the sound of singing in the meadow below, and when she found the source, she was taken aback. Stereotypical as it was, she usually expected to find small, sprightly, dainty wolves at the end of hollered songs. Wolves like her in build, but soft in personality. Instead, the voice belonged to a heavyset she-wolf with a white-on-black coat who looked like she would be more at home in a sparring ring than singing in an open field.

What're you screaming about? Wylla called, waving her tail in greeting but keeping the smirk from her lips. She knew Norsamu wasn't screaming at all, but far be it from her to acknowledge that someone had a good singing voice.