It was nothing more than a mixture of sentimentality; though the Archer would never admit it aloud, and muscle memory that guided the young boy's paws to once more traverse along the snow-dusted crevices and weave about the cedarwood trunks of his birthplace. Since the day his mother had deemed Claw well enough in his own capabilities to fend for himself their time together had dwindled down to almost nothing, both parties thriving in their renowned sense of independence. His mother chose one direction and he another now that his dependency on her was null. It was a simple enough concept and he had no qualms, in fact, he found he rather enjoyed the solitude.
The stillness of the Scowle was shattered by the sound of Claw sighing heavily once his ebony-dipped limbs came to a halt, emerald gaze scouring a particular set of crevices and the snowy mounds at its feet once the cloud of steam from his exhaled breath dissipated.
I wonder if you're still here.
He pondered over the likelihood of her still laying there beneath the mountain of snow, once swarthy fur now dilapidated to nothing more than ivory bone after the vultures and other scavagers had picked her clean. He almost dared to dig and find out, convinced the grave she received was not one she deserved, though, internally he still held firm to his belief that it was her own weakness that befell his former sibling.
Claw soon found himself scoffing at having gotten so caught up in old memories, pressing onward after giving his pelt a good shake. He needed a drink. He needed a friend.