North.
This time, she was going in the right direction, drifting along streams and under sunlit boughs, the rays arcing around naked branches and falling like splinters to the dark, cold earth. She had gone from ruling the world, its light and radiance, to haunting it, slipping along invisible pathways and breathing in the shadows, watching, waiting. No less noble; no less fierce; just less loud. Still, yesteryear's grass whispered in her wake as she went by, and her paws left prints in the deepest shadow where the mud from some forgotten rain had not yet been dried up, always changing what she touched in one way or another.
The prey trails had gone cold down south, on the meadow with the arrogant youth. Life was gnawing at her as she gnawed at it, a cold, empty space in her gut, a bone-deep ache, but she slogged along. North. North, and then east. She was already further east than where she'd met the youngling who knew of Mapplethorpe, but how far north had that been? She wasn't sure, hadn't wanted to waste time on revisiting that place only to cut east from it—a shortcut the delirious state of hunger had imposed upon her, until she'd recently found a rabbit to snack on. It had done little soothe all her needs, but it had cleared her mind. North, east, it was all the same, wasn't it? She'd know if she went too far north, and then she'd double back south by east, and eventually she'd find whatever corner of this blasted world he called his own.

Times change, and the world turns, night, dawn, day, and still the wolf ever moves forward.
The deep forest gave way to interspersed meadows, grew thicker again, then thinned out, and nothing on the winds betrayed the scent of pack—for he had a pack now, apparently, licking the paws of some female Cézanne would have to displace, just to prove a point.
But there was life, at least; a creature painted stark and pale by the sunlight, snuffling around the spring grass and plants with what seemed to be a startling amount of determination. Now, Cézanne was quite well versed in herbal lore herself, courtesy of her tradition-loving parents, but she'd probably not taken it seriously enough—she remembered enough to save her own life, or kill someone if she felt like it, but wounds healed. You licked them, you kept them clean, and they closed up. So her lips pulled back in a temporary sneer, and her tail rose behind her hindquarters, and at some audacious distance of five yards or so she paused, ears brazenly forward.
And stared. With all the dispassionate intensity of a queen.

And, as all Queens are given their due, so was she—noticed, reacted to, and it was with just as much dismay and pride she saw him come closer. Bold. It had always tickled her fancy but none had ever quite toed the line efficiently enough; she'd grown bored and angry with them in the end, but for a while their daring ways entertained her. So she let him come, basked in the knowledge that she drew him in, still every inch the queen. And her posture was not slow to let him know in case he ever forgot, just as her teeth knew how to nip out sharp reminders—and worse, should her fury be stoked. So for once, words came naturally, slipping off her tongue with all the harshness of a wolf and the silken arrogance of a regent.
» Regina, « she told him, for she was—Queen of everything, of the world, vivat Cézanne!
But then, he showed a streak of dumb, and her pleasant mood was soured somewhat. Interrupting something? Claimed lands? Why, she was the one doing the interrupting, and claimed lands? He would've smelled if he'd come into her keep, or even near it, and probably would've been dragged before her by the jaws of her loyal subjects—so her lip curled, and she thought it very unfortunate that he had ruined her hopes of an entertaining encounter. A pity, because it had been promising.
» No, « she told him, dispassionate again. Oh, the idiots, how they were everywhere, and her gaze bored into his face. And his name was Couth. She didn't care. Just cut to the chase because he'd ruined the game already. » Where can I find Mapplethorpe? « It was a demand, direct and precise, and she expected an answer. And a good one.