Quaking Vale Fools Can't See

Although many wolves — and Laurel himself was no exception — could have thought that Larkspur had always been how he was, the little Ritter was vastly different. He was rarely teeth and snarls to his family, he was not snarky or snappy, and more or less wanted good for the wolves he considered his family. He was happy, and the thoughts of his old mom seemed more like a dream than a memory. He had not considered what could have been, and merely concentrated on the now. And now he knew that he loved the dark woman he called mom, and he loved his pack, and even though his dad gave him weird looks and made him feel something he couldn't quite put a paw on, he loved him too. Some days he felt a little out of place, especially on the days where he saw the other puppy in the pack playing with his mom and dad. In the end, Laurel was fed and played until he was too tired to play any more, and so overall felt well. Not that he even considered that anything would be not okay.

He woke to the fog so thick that he thought he might lose his nose and often checked to see if it was still there. The idea of his nose drifting off into the whiteness hadn't left him until he was mostly certain that it wouldn't, but only mostly certain because it hadn't. It still could, and the image of his nose not being there seemed so clear to him that he firmly believed that it might disappear for good. As the morning passed, Laurel hid in the warmth of Sahalie's fur, wishing she was awake so he could bombard her with more questions. Which there was plenty. He didn't seem to be too deep of a thinker and often questioned things that seemed odd and farfetched.

Although safe, Lauraceae quickly grew bored with his hiding. His final decision was that if his nose disappeared it would, and that Quaking Vale and all of the wolves he knew would love him anyways. He shifted away from his mother and shook himself off, wriggling his snout a few times. Purposely quiet, Laurel whispered a goodbye and shuffled away from his mother to explore.

He never went far and so far had not considered much beyond Quaking Vale. He usually kept close, thinking that there was nothing beyond the familiar ashy trees in the vale. With the fog he could barely see much, everything was hazy and unfamiliar. Eventually he could hear the water of the nearby river and decided to follow it. Around the water the fog was clearer and he could see more than a few feet in front of him. Tail wildly wagging behind him, Laurel approached the water in hopes to find something interesting beneath its surface.

Sachiel did not like the fog.

It distorted his vision, making it difficult for him to navigate through the striped trees he had grown acquainted with. His movements were slow and deliberate as he moved through the vale, his mismatched eyes wide with uncertainty. He would have preferred to remain holed up within his den, seeking safety among the damp dirt, but as he grew the den he shared with his parents had grown small—claustrophobic even. The thought made his lips twitch, the corners falling into a soft frown. Most of his time was spent alone, anyway, as his parents had duties they needed to tend to. Important duties—maybe. Sachiel did not pry. He was a good boy; he kept his nose to himself and his questions at bay. Silence was something he preferred, and often craved, although he was not opposed to an adventure with either his parents or one of his older packmates. The little Leigh did not mind being on his own—he never did. Conversation, like the fog, disrupted his sight. It was an unnecessary distraction.

His mismatched eyes narrowed as he stumbled through the frog, trying to reorientate himself. Everything looked the same; everything looked not right! He huffed in frustration, his little almond brows pinching together. The fog was so thick it caused the branches overhead to remain still, the bright orange leaves hidden, stagnant, behind a layer of gray. Sound was muffled, only adding to his frustration, as he meandered through the fog, unsure of where he was heading.

The further he distanced himself from his den the louder the sound of moving water became, lulling him forward. Something familiar, he thought dully to himself as he tried to picture where he was, hoping that something would appear out of the fog and refresh his memory…

The boy was greeted by a familiar face—or rump—instead. The creamy figure of the cub often glued to Sahalie’s side appeared before him, nearly blending in with the monochrome surroundings. His features relaxed as he approached, hesitant, his ears pinned forward with silent curiosity.

sorry for the wait @Lauraceae <3

ridge is a mature character

aka he curses a lot due to his frustation with his memory loss

x

ridge associates colours with moods/feelings & uses them to describe others