He stayed in the south, unsure of what to do. There was nothing left for him on the mountain. His mother was gone. His little brother. Lenae, too. Sure, little Jenessa and her father planned on returning after their visit south but it wouldn’t be the same. The Tarn had been the fresh start he had been hoping for… now it left nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe he was doomed for misery. Maybe he did not deserve to feel happiness or content. Even with Adeltra in the south he did not know if he would stay. Hell, he did not even know if his older half-brother would allow him to reside in the same pack. Cyril would likely have to prove his worth and he did not know if he could. He was not much of a team player anymore.

A strange scent caught his attention as he wandered aimlessly through the willows. He did not want to pull Adeltra way from her duties more than he needed to so he would drift away from the borders, seeking refuge amongst the base of the mountain or in the meadow separating the Ridge wolves from the Scowle. Occasionally he would find himself meandering amongst the drooping trees, subconsciously hoping he would lure Adeltra away for a few clandestine minutes.

He observed from afar, keeping his obsidian frame hidden behind the sinewy trees as he watched the plump cub slink through the trees…

His attention was quickly snatched by the scent of food, luring him away from the small obsidian girl. Unfortunately, it appeared that it had reeled her in too, which meant that if Cyril wanted a meal he was going to have to endure some (unwanted) company. He crept forward, his yellow gaze flitting from side to side to ensure that no one else was lurking among the trees. But there was a familiar scent that accompanied the elk—one that clung to the fiery eyed girl. He blinked, slowly, in realization. She was a Scowle wolf. Which meant she was sort of a friend. Cyril had a good relationship with Morganna which meant that the Pookastone wolves were basically allies. Hell, this pup even looked like his mother’s friend. But she was not an Archer—they had a very particular look (or air) about them.

Mind some company? He greeted, his voice soft and hoarse from lack of use. He was attempting to friendly, or cordial. Mostly out of necessity. Hunting on his own was not always easy. He would jump on any opportunity for a meal.