Since meeting Sven, Samael chose to be more than cautious. Just the other day, he saw for himself how he looked. His eye milky white from the Mothers’ torment, his muzzle scarred with slivers of white where the fur had grown back. Just like Father. He was not even sure what to make of it. They had talked about destiny, about history, and fates fulfilled as a family (just Skoll with the five, moon-borne Archers) but, never, in Samael’s mind did he think that history could repeat itself.
As Spring brought down a surprise shower of snow flurries, the boy hastily scurried across the marshlands where he had been staying by the Lagoon and headed towards the willows. Even if their branches were just beginning to show a bit of green, their umbrella-like canopies were better than nothing when it came to finding shelter.
The first willow he found at the very edge tree line was the one he chose, ducking quickly through its branches and curling up in the grass not far from its knobby trunk. The snow still fell through the thin branches but being here was better than being out in the open. With his limbs tucked beneath him and his head held up, he simply waited for the storm to pass.