Ryvet never claimed to be reliable, it was something he had picked up from Valiant. If you never made promises you could never be accused of breaking them.

He had finally found the old bear den that had been the home of his youth, and though Taima’s stale scent remained, she did not. He had tried to follow her for a time but the autumn rains and early snows quickly buried any trail she may have left behind. Now all that protruded from the shelter offered within was the tip of his dark nose. Half-lidded eyes stared into the cedarwood beyond and even the twitch of a winter hare drawing closer was not enough to rouse the lanky man to raise.

He had to wonder why he was back? For an area once inhabited by one of the largest packs in the area, it now felt like little more than a graveyard. A haunted shrine to remind the Lyall of what would never be again. A flash of white fur spotted from the corner of his eye was not enough to make him lift his head (this vision of his mother had visited him before), but the crack of a branch in the distance bought him to his feet. That was new.

Cautiously, the young man stepped forward, his head craned high and his nose working overtime. The chill in the air stung his nostrils and no warm scent of life beyond the hare that had fled with his sudden movement. He snorted to bring some warmth back to his muzzle and stretched. Perhaps it was time to go a’roving anyway…