Golden Glade savin' all your food stamps and burnin' down the trailer park

He hadn’t expected a Firebird to be out and about, least of all Phox. There was a curl at the corner of his lips—amusement, really, but it could easily be misconstrued as caustic. How did Phox have time to escape, being father of the year to all of the pups in the pack?

Of course, it had become obvious that the dark wolf hadn’t known of Towhee’s initial intentions, and so the Ostrega forced himself to relax—to keep in check his tongue, given the rocky ground the two shared just from their last conversation. Pippin had always liked Phox—and at the end of the day, he and Wraen were perhaps two of the three reasons he would have stayed, had it seemed the right thing to do.

For once, his exit of a pack had felt justified, rather than self-indulgent.

“Checking out real estate,” he offered, deciding to be forthcoming on the matter. His tail gave an idle sway in the air as he studied the dark wolf, his own brows arching in what he hoped was a casual manner. “How’ve you been?”