Not a single lead.
A sigh so heavy it was visible in the frosted winter air left the man, floating out across the ice. But there was nothing to thaw the cold case that his daughter had become. He found himself returning here often, to the last place he had seen her. The white patriarch draped himself over the stones and watched the rivulet, although it did not move. He wished the time would, like the water, stop as well. It surged on, moving without him. He thought of returning home: maybe Piety had gone there. His woman would be waiting for him. Breeding season was fast approaching and his window of opportunity was closing if he remained her any longer.
Hocus did not attempt to feign much interest in the daily life of the pack. He did not speak up about the roles, for why should he? He hunted when he needed to, lectured when he needed to, and guarded the forest when he needed to. There was nothing special that the pack needed from him. Besides, there was no point in investing himself too much.
Nearby a bird was screeching mercilessly. He assumed more would flock to it, soon, to pick away the corpse that it did not cease to mention. But Hocus was not hungry. There was no doubt that the others, wherever they were, would be able to hear the damn raven. They would rise to it's grating summons if the mood took them. He hoped they would sooner rather than later. Put the damn thing out of its misery and give him some time to think more. Just some sleep.