Firefly Glen I've heard since I was younger that oil and water don't mix

They descended on her in perfect pentameter: a drop of sunlight, a sterling shadow, and a rock that looked cut from the mountain itself. Dhalia took a generous step to better include the silver yearling in their circle, no clue to her name or what brought her here but tickled by the peculiar timing of her arrival. What fun! To have not only pack wolves but strangers around her, strangers, it seemed, both to her and to this Firefly Glen!

A gathering of this many, though, meant a shift in energy and conversation, a necessity to give up her own grab for the air and defer to courtesies where she might have preferred to talk. So, at the silver girl's question, which came in the space Dhalia herself might have filled, the Ostrega kept silent and offered space for the blonde girl to give the name of the Glen again, even though it took every ounce of self-restraint not to dance the title from her own tongue instead.

Of course, this courtesy also served her own selfish whim. In the silence she let her admiration linger on the man who rounded off their quartet. His smile played well against the intelligence of his eyes, and she felt a pleasant warmth fill her cheeks.

"Lovely name, and a lovely place," she remarked, "I've got some family in the area, but I'll find them well enough,"  she waved her tail, as if to shrug off the notion she was in any hurry. Right now this place was much more interesting than Moonspear, anyway. "Guess I've always been piqued by comin' across wolves and packs I've never met. And last time I was by, the closest pack around was on that mountain over there," she gestured to the range beyond the foothills, "Just had to see what y'all were for myself. Curiosity," she shrugged and smiled and, with an air about her as easy as the wind through the prairie grass, glanced to the silver girl with the playful twist of her smile, "I'll blame it on my upbringing."