Moonspear all my friends are heathens

Moonspear.

A fitting name, given its stalwart position and the strength it exuded. Drawn to the mountains himself—his birthright, it would seem—Argent found himself tantalized by the possibilities here.

Their purpose was far more humble than that of his own kin. Silver eyes—frosted, set upon the lands as the red-tailed man described his home—offering his own name in return. Argent was silent in his musings, his own stoical mask placed carefully, as had been taught from such an early age. Stigmata cast a large shadow to follow under—perhaps here, there would be reprieve, if only for a season or so while he worked on finding himself.

“I seek a home.” He paused, eyes swiveling back to the other, studying the man and bowing his muzzle lower at the request. “I’m looking for a place and time to find myself,” he clarified, hoping the man would read between the lines—he could not swear undying loyalty until the day he died, for such a promise to a stranger was not within him.

“Finding purpose in another pack seems a good way to start. Scouting and sparring are two things I feel I excel at, should they be of use to you and yours.”