Sawtooth Spire You must've gone and put a spell on me

In a roundabout way, it was a good thing Stag had come across Wylla. Shaped by the customs of Diaspora, he was not used to anything that wasn't seriousness. Even his father, god rest his soul, had been a rather stern and upright male: by all accounts, Stag came across his seriousness honestly. To have a wolf that was neither icily composed like Mahler, nor emotionally-shut off like Stigmata (or even in some way, his mother) was a good change of pace for Stag. Even if he didn't know it at the time.

Wylla's laugh earned a grin from Stag, who misconstrued it as mirth directed to Zarya and not his embarassing encounter with wood. Momentarily set back by the rather bloody image Wylla portrayed (and reading no beguiling emotions in those sunny eyes) Stag navigated her reply with a careful nod and then a timid endorsement: "or her tail." He giggled, latently horrified by the streak of bloodthirstiness in him he wasn't aware of. He almost pressed his paw to his mouth in surprise, but kept his paw on the ground. Instead he looked to Wylla warily, measuring whether or not she approved of such a thing nervously.