Deepwood Weald i hate your friends and they hate me too

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The sun set each day, and every morning, when it rose, Pippin’s mood had yet to lift with it. The agouti Ostrega pressed passed the marked borders of the Firebirds, seeking space from the scents of his pack mates, distancing himself from them for now.

He skirted away from the chained mountain, uninterested in scaling the rocky terrain, and instead allowed the wooded Weald to pull him to its embrace. He sought seclusion—or a distraction, honestly—and for now, he simply wanted distance between himself and @Towhee.

Spring had finally melted the remaining snow, though the late morning gave way to a cooler rain. Seeking shelter further into the thickest trees, Pippin, for now, emptied his mind of everything and simply focused on exploring the land and his short reprieve.

He decided to explore the lands just beyond the Forest, as he had now familiarized himself enough with his new territory. Under the watchful shadow of the mountain there were more forests, each separate from the other in their own distinct characters and traits. This one was winding, thick with thickets and thorns and ferns. He wondered if he was getting lost, as each landmark looked the same as the last. He happened upon a reprieve from the solitude, in stark contrast to the wolf he encountered, in the form of another wanderer in the Weald, who he smiled upon warmly. Hallo,

Youth and vigor was what he was met with, and a rather casual greeting. Pippin studied the dark wolf, keeping his features and posture neutral as his tail gave an idle flick. “Sup, sauce?”

Wraen wanted juicy gossip from the nearby packs—this guy seemed as good as any to start with. “I’m Pippin. You happen to be familiar with this area?” Whatever the Nightwalkers were—he was at least hoping to pry some information about them from someone.

Sauce? He said, his accent warping the word. What does that mean? There were plenty of words in the common tongue that he did not know — the sheer amount had always baffled him, he thought he had known enough to get him by in normal conversations, but he was sometimes lacking. My name is Haoniyao — and no. He was a stranger to these lands, perhaps not as much as this male, by his accent.