Kintla Flatlands such deliberate disguises.

Anselm. A peculiar name, but nothing out of the ordinary, he supposed. Mordecai had met his fair share of uniquely named beings out there. He supposed in a way, his own name was among them. As the younger wolf spoke, he felt the corners of his mouth tug upward at the mention of why he was out there wandering on his own. Hadn't there been a time when his own response had fallen along those lines? Even then, that calling had summoned him out into the wilds. It had driven him north over the course of years, and now he found himself returning to somewhere that he had thought loosely as a home. Mordecai had not done this with any other region.

"Maybe you haven't gone far enough inland then," he opted to say, implying that he had seen what was there. And he had. "There's a lot more to this place than fields and coastline if you're willing to look for it." Of course, his statements came with the assumption that the youth had not traveled inland at all. He could have been wrong; perhaps Anselm had come from the same places he had all along. Maybe he had been born and lived in one of the packs that Mordecai only knew by name and not by sight.