Moonspear Moodi / Cryin

Idly, he wondered if she remembered the stories and histories after she divulged them to those she taught them to—but another yawn from her brought one of his own, and he found the question dying from his lips.

A certain lethargy began to wind it’s way along his spine, and he held back a grunt—eyes drifting back to the direction he continued to walk—hoping that once routine took over, the fog-like feeling of fatigue would creep away with duty.

Instead, she asked of the Sunspire—and he found a rather chagrin expression pulling at his lips before mollifying it—a shrug offered at first before: “I was born there. A pack called Diaspora. My father had rather large ambitions… Too large, maybe.” He paused, considering. Stigmata was almost a story to him, rather than a being who once was—a character in a tale Keen might weave, no doubt… Not quite tangible. His untimely death had placed Mahler as a more prominent father figure… and a surge of guilt threatened at him then, that he had not checked on the man since returning to the Wilds. “He died when I was young. Sometimes I wonder if the opinions and stories I’ve been told of him are… biased,” he added, trying to be careful with his words.