Firefly Glen so shave your face with some mace in the dark

The interlude thus far remained pleasant enough—unbeknownst to the Ostrega that a viper lay before him, poised to strike should the moment warrant it. He had been used to such company in the past—been there himself, even. Perhaps his times in the Wilds had caused his guarded walls to crumble—and so his eyes swept over the woman before him, stilling as she closed some of the distance between them.

She was cat-like in grace—something he could greatly appreciate, and the agouti wolf shifted his form, hardened but lean sinew shifting beneath the thickening pelt that the cold autumn encouraged. “Pippin Ostrega,” he decided to offer, one ear twitching in quiet thought. “You from one of the neighboring packs?”

Wraen had once sent him out to scout for a certain trouble-making band. He might have left the bad taste of the Firebirds behind, but it didn't necessarily make him a free agent.