In these lands as foreign as Mars, a strong bias towards features that originated in his homeland was a uniform he bore proudly. Every now and then, Wendell could possibly come off as gobby, and perhaps somewhat of a todger for holding a pre-existing preference, though you couldn’t help the wolverine for being loyalist to Blighty’s pageantry.  potent aura of “British groove” applied to such articles as written scripts, media - and, in this situation, music.

How in Pete’s name a ”lowly mammal” had garnered enough fortitude so that he may master the orchestral arts and perform melodious tunes on an instrument, Wendell hadn’t the slightest clue. It made sense when a human took up the task, what with those sausage appendages on their hands, though for any other species to do so? To him, it sounded like a fresh load of tosh. However, to the wolverine’s delightful surprise, this guy possessed the know-how; until now. it had been a dull era of eternal hush when it came to song and melody. Hence, percieving those strums of string was immensely pleasant to his mentality. Not only that, but the choice of artist was bang-up, for Pink Floyd was one of the Commonwealth’s, if not the world’s, finest. Obviously, the tomcat here was a personage of taste, as he was himself. A shared interest is always a swell thing to bond over, and goodness knew he needed a connection in Sunhaven to maintain his marbles. The ditty breeding a grin in the apexes of his maw, Wendell discreetly drew near to the relatively unknown feline. His name must’ve been tossed around here and there, yet Wendell paid nay attention.

Placing himself a respectable distance forth from the vocalizing tuxedo, an onyx black snout pointed expectantly in the entertainer’s region, conversation starters brewing about in his brain which could be used once the golden oldie’s route was run; though he knew from experience that it was only but commencing.