Hushed Willows unruhestifter

Wylla kept her reservations to herself as they made their way back toward the mountains and the draping willows beyond the ridge. Mahler was right, of course. They couldn't afford to be blind to the possible threats around them, not after they'd failed to notice the Saints moving in until it was too late. They'd moved Diaspora higher into the mountains when two packs merged into one, and less than a year later, they'd departed again. Wylla wasn't keen for a third time.

But she couldn't help feeling like alerting other packs to their presence was also a mistake. Grimnismal had done fine without sharing its existence with the world. Diaspora, too, and Sagtannet was doing fine up until the Saints moved in. There was a benefit to establishing peaceful relations with nearby groups, sure, but she couldn't help feeling unsure of it all. It wasn't always that simple.

Wisely, she held her tongue and chose to simply enjoy the walk with a man she'd felt uneasy with for far too long. No sense ruining the mood again; there'd be plenty of time for that later, as seemed to be their perpetual cycle. Instead, she swept her muzzle in a wide arc, examining the long, low-hanging boughs of the trees from their healthy distance. Weird place, she remarked. She wasn't sure she'd like walking through curtains of foliage all the time, personally.