Beneath a sun still thick of humid air, The white wolf still holds an intent gaze that lingers, unwavering, on the more brilliantly colored juvenile. Compared to the lands he had travelled and the social protocol he had formed, this place - ‘Moladion’ the boy called it - was, to say the least, strange. What land is it where an intruder is met with polite courtesies? What place is there where a wolf doesn’t take advantage of its home turf to keep strangers and would-be trouble makers out and away? He could smell others on the dry wind; wolves in the mountains and wolves in the prairies. Were they as non-threatening as the new blood that stood before him, tail loose and posture relaxed? It didn’t align with the life Tuscall had thus-far experienced. It was foreign, and so was the land. The question now remained, though: do as the Romans, or keep to the code?

It wasn’t a choice the dusty pelted sire was used to having to make. Keeping his chestnut eyes low, he glances from the stranger to the trees and back. It is a pretty land, he supposed, and vast. But if this stranger were so comfortable here, Tuss still had to consider the threats that coincided with a populated area. Was there enough game to go around? Were the packs too old to find favor in new blood like his, unattached and without ceremony for their old pacts and bonds? The idea alone agitated his traditionalist mind.

”My homeland no longer exists in name” He shortly spoke, and the muscles of his pinched back legs gradually loosened, his claws moving in and out of the dirt in a slow rhythm. ”It’s been reclaimed by the elements for many years. I know not who claims it today.” When he thinks about the pine trees and cool streams of the woods he roamed as a younger wolf, as he thought too of those he used to roam with, the creamy wolf narrows his eyes and lets out a slow release of air. He sits, though, and licks at his shoulder a moment as he scans his memory for anything that could humor a curious local. Between the long days of wandering and the hungry nights beneath a lonely moon for which was made no howls, he can’t came up with anything he could classify as an ‘adventure.’

”A lone wolf’s ventures are rarely happy tales. I’m no exception, so I’ll spare you my grief. Besides,” He tilted his head back, eyes lighting up in the radiant downpour of fall’s cunning sun. ”It’s a bright day. I’d be a fool to dim it with tragic yarns. So speak of yourself instead. Surely you’ve adventures of your own.”

It would be refreshing, he thought, to hear of the wildness of youth again. He had passed over most of his younger years focussing on the pack and its safety, keeping up with the responsibilities he bore. This one seemed without too many cares, though. He probably had time on his paws, nothing better to do than get into trouble. Isn’t that what most pups did these days? Fight bears and race the wind? Something close, he supposed. Its what he would have done, anyways.