Moonspear washed away in a tide of longing

“They aren’t the only ones who keep hunting in the glen,” he reasoned, “there are the vagabonds who traverse it as well. It draws them.” There was only so much of the glen they could hold from their reach in the mountains. The mileage was considerable and at that time Dirge didn’t expect them to always keep a tight rein on it. For as diverse and varied as the glen was, it was the buffer between the foothills and the plains that sprawled out for miles beyond that—it was a sanctuary for many things, their dinner least of all.

And Neverwinter? Well, they were what they were, and perhaps not at all too dissimilar to Moonspear in certain areas. Despite the relative greenhorn status that he lent to Mal, he knew that the young wolf had some redeeming qualities. He would have had to, in order to keep his land, and his subordinates.

“Don’t be too quick to dismiss Neverwinter,” he went on then to Osiris, “they may be our contenders but your mother and I feel it’s best to keep them on our good side, and theirs.” They had enough troubles to worry about than the anger of their distant evergreen dwelling neighbor, though he was certain there was often naught they could do to accrue it otherwise. The perks of individuality, he supposed.

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