Sleepy Fox Hollow Get my pretty name out of your mouth

To Stag, that strip of cedar was meaningless. When Wylla deposited it down and pushed it away, it became insignificant. Out of sight, out of mind. Just an idle chew toy to pass the time.

He turned his attention back to Wylla, an ear tilted towards the words that scrolled from her tongue in brisk, perfunctory fact. A pack nearby, lead by wolves who called themselves The Watch.

A daunting name. Stag repeated it a few times in his mind: Stag, from The Watch. Wylla, Watchman. It had a ring to it he could not quite place. It didn't matter his opinion, however -- much like Wylla, Stag felt the instinctive pull to let his roots settle close. Mostly for Phaedra. "Do you trust them?"

That would be his only question on the matter. He agreed a pack was better than braving the wilds alone -- but he also was sharply reminded of the last time he had hedged his life and faith into a pack. Look where that got them.