dawn | patchy rain possible, 73 ° F, 23 ° C
There was not a lot of time that the pale leader got to himself—not with a pack to lead and children to take care of. As he grew older he became more of a recluse, which was nearly impossible to maintain with his position. Day trips outside Hearthwood had been cut short and he seldom strayed outside the Kingswood. Not since he ventured west to drop off herbs for Wild Rye. Even then, he had only left the canopy of branches for good reason, not to simply stretch his legs.
His toes ached at the thought, for he missed being able to travel at his leisure. Once the little Starks were old enough he would take them on excursions to satisfy their curiosity and his wanderlust.
For now he would have to settle for the ethos. However, this visit to the meadow served dual purposes. His son, who had never experienced the warmth of the sun, was buried him. The son XIX would never take on the same adventures he had planned for the sisters. His lips curled into a frown at the thought as he strode through the stalks of lavender in order to ignite the soothing scent that wafted off them. He inhaled, deeply, his chartreuse eyes closing momentarily before he plopped down against a tree, savouring the moment before he had to return to his duties.
The sun had just begun to creep through the trees but this time it was not accompanied by blue skies. Clouds were strewn overhead as a lazy rainfall began, not heavy enough to chase him away just yet. He remained, comforted by the soothing scent of the hyssops, his son’s unmarked grave just inches away from his folded legs. Once the sun focused in the sky Lachesis would return to the river’s edge, hopefully with a warm meal between his jaws.
stick with those who stick with you