He was always patrolling; always observing. Lachesis kept telling himself he wasn’t paranoid—that he was just trying to look out for his pack; his family. While he was worried that Kjors was still lurking nearby, Lachesis had not caught whiff of the one-eyed dragon in several days. It was comforting to know the threat had been extinguished. He hoped, for both his and Kjors’ sake, that the older wolf had left Kingsfall far behind. Confrontation was something he liked to avoid.

With winter fast approaching, the healer was often seen scrounging for herbs to stock up his infirmary. Atropos had been a big help in ensuring he had everything he needed for the colder months. Illness always seemed to follow winter into the Lore; the Stark liked to be as prepared as possible. Especially when it came to the plants that would be impossible to find until the snow had completely melted and the temperature  began to rise. Overstocking was necessary during the rainy months. It kept him occupied and prevented his thoughts from collecting. Distractions were something Lachesis excelled in.

The scent of another disturbed him as he meandered through the trees, his brows furrowing as he tried to identify the array of smells that clung to the stranger. From what he could tell this wolf did not belong to any pack. His interested peaked. Not many loners made it up to the expanse; the tundra was rather unappealing to those who were not accustom to the barren landscape. The shadow seemed occupied with searching for something … but what? Curious, he stepped toward the younger wolf, though ensuring there was enough distance between them. He quietly cleared his throat to alert the other of his presence, his expression smooth as he studied the fiery-eyed stranger. 

The ghost’s head tipped slightly to one side as he studied the obsidian wolf quietly. He was a tall creature, close to Lachesis’ height—maybe a hair taller—and appeared to be of good health, for a loner. They (loners) were becoming scarce as the cold weather approached, as they were keen on finding a place to call home for the winter. This was the best season to have low numbers. There were less mouths to feed and neighbouring packs kept to themselves, as they focused on keeping their members well-fed and free of sickness. Spring would bring a new wave of puppies and rogues searching for somewhere to belong. Despite the lull in their ranks, XIX was not worried. Once the snow dissipated the wolves would migrate north, or stumble upon Kingsfall before venturing deeper into the Lore.

Despite being a wolf born of the snow, he already missed the warmth of summer. His pale fur longed to feel the gentle caresses of the sun rays and his toes ached to feel nothing but soft, plush grass between them rather than squishy, dirty mud, or splooshy, icy slush. His nose wrinkled at the thought.

XIX quickly discarded his thoughts as the inky wolf began to speak, his chartreuse gaze narrowing as they focused on the younger wolf. “No, no,” he began with a quick, short shake of his head, his lips curling into a thin smile, “you’ve still got a few miles before you run into any borders.” The loner’s next statement caused a brow to lift, his curiosity hot in the back of his throat. “Are you leaving it here so you don’t misplace it again?” He asked, his tone only holding honest interest as the words dripped off his tongue.