Andrey still was not happy.
He was trying—really, truly trying—but this place was not his home. He was not comfortable here, and he did not think he ever would be. Hell, he even tried being complacent and accepting, but his mind and body still yearned for the salty air that had been in his lungs since birth.
The first few nights after the claiming he tried sleeping with the pack, but by the fourth night he found himself drifting further away. Sometimes he would not sleep at all, and would spend his night wandering through the territory they had claimed. They had claimed, not Andrey. No matter how many members of his family were here this place would never be a home to him; he would never claim it as a home. It was all just temporary, until he figured out which direction home was in. Andrey did not even care if there was no home to return to—if the Estuary had been ripped apart by the hoomans—as long as he was by the ocean that was all that mattered. This place, even with the burbling stream, was far too quiet just as the rest of the Lore. Andrey missed the sound of the crashing ocean and squeaking seagulls.
A frown was etched across his dark features, his expression just as gloomy as the weather overhead. His body was sprawled atop an uprooted tree, his chin resting atop his forelegs. Until he figured out how to get home he needed to play nice, for his brother’s sake. He knew that his brother was already unhappy that he did not want to call this place home, and as much as he did not want to be here Andrey also did not want to upset his brother any further.