He didn’t want to go, knowing full well that with so many strangers about there would be more than a few that wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of his accent, and a few that might even mock him for it. He consoled himself that any attempt to fit in was a positive attempt and that he would much rather be mocked by strangers who would later be forced to leave than be evicted from the pack and be on his own. He slipped from his den and all but tumbled his way down the Maw to the Steppe, his expression neutral, although with his grizzled and mangled face it could easily be mistaken for being stern and serious.
What had ultimately won him over was that festivals often meant fermented fruit, and it had been a good long while since he’d felt the numbing dizziness and emboldened fire that usually came along with it. Hell, there had been times- many times- since he landed on the foreign continent that he felt he needed a good bushel of turned apples just to keep going, although those days had usually involved fond, yet unwelcome memories of his wife.
He took his place beside the familiar cerulean female and yawned, the call for festivities had pulled him from what he believed to be a well-deserved nap after a long day patrolling the steep border near his den. A stranger had already answered the call and he could feel a nervous chill running through him.
