There was something pretty about the fjord, despite the smog encasing the world in a heavy blanket. It was hot as hell itself, which was... aggravating. But what was Acheron supposed to do: sit and stew as his pelt melted off of him? He'd drunk some halfway-to-boiling water from the gap between the hills, and maybe he'd go back down to hunt later, but he was pretty happy, all things considered. Maybe it was the new surroundings exciting his constantly-frazzled mind -- he was an explorer at heart, he thought; he'd always sort of liked being a vagabond as a child, liked discovering the tricks of each new place he and his mother went to -- or maybe it was just the solitude he had been so desperate for in that claustrophobic horde they'd hoped for safety in. Suffering felt strangely satisfying to him. Maybe he was in purgatory now, but he would find heaven soon. Someday he would have everything he ever dreamed of, and he would know for a fact that it was because he had struggled through pain.

He scented a wolf. Young but not too young, belonging to a pack -- it was hard to pull out more under the concealment of the smoke's thick odor. He kept moving towards the stranger: he was bored, or maybe he was lonely, or he just wanted to see what someone else was doing there. Take your pick. He was approaching quietly from behind -- not because he was trying to sneak up on the boy, just because! -- but before he could say hello, the soft but unmistakable sound of crying became apparent, and his paws halted. He hesitated: should he just leave? Kid was probably here because he wanted to be alone, and Acheron didn't particularly want to deal with a crying stranger today (or any day for that matter -- this was not his area of expertise).