Stavanger Bay The sea runners

Memphis wasn't the same as most foreigners he met. The mocha colored man spoke solemnly, his words seemed to be fueled by an inner wisdom. His mannerisms seemed carefully deliberate.

"Not really, I'm merely a traveler that ventured to various places around Teekon Wilds."  A pause. "Do you have any intention of joining a pack in the future, Tahoe?"

The inquisition was certainly unexpected. Tahoe hadn't given that notion a great deal of thought. Back in the days of his own pack, he'd never fathom letting a stranger simply strut their way into joining them. He was an unforgiving guardian. His family had the same attitude, they wanted no part in accepting any shifty newcomers. None ever tried to join though. Their intentions were always nefarious. And so, any wolf who set foot on his lands were subject to a punishment they wouldn't forget—if they survived. Along his latter travels, Tahoe had encountered a handful of docile wolves—rather forgettable characters—but a few had expressed their desires to find a pack. That's how he became aware of such amiable practices out West. He assumed some packs would operate similarly to his, yet there had to be some groups still forming—hungry for members. It was true, a large pack would certainly have its advantages. Setting foot on another's land was risky, he was baffled to how someone would even consider trespassing, requesting to outright join. Tahoe never sought to be the sociable type anyway, avoiding encounters was much easier, and frankly less vexing to him. Though, he couldn't deny life would be more beneficial with the aid of fellow packmembers. If he could find a group that he didn't grow to detest, perhaps he would join. He gave Memphis' words additional consideration before replying. 

If my only use isn't to be their damn punchin' bag, then sure. How 'bout you, Memphis? You intend on stayin' here awhile, or will ya move on?