They weave, in and out, familiar now with this new (alien) Moladion enough that they don’t think as they move. It is not as though they had been here the past seven years - but it was time to return. The loss of their pack-sister, the honorary fanstastic female that had become so important to them had faded into oblivion and neirin - faithful, sure, unwavering neirin - led them home once more.
They are swift, despite their age, though the swiftest was easily the littlest of their company - the brown mottled seamus - who takes to climbing the rise before entering Moladion as if he were a breeze and his brothers were bird, leaf, and stone (respectively to their hierarchy). Neirin finds Seamus’s flight up the hill exhilarating and takes off to beat him to the summit, Fenrir finds himself simply swept along in order to keep pace, and Ifrit simply rolls and roils with heavier muscle up the hill. Brown and gold, then black, then red -- they stare out over the deep slope that had once housed the wolves that survived the obliteration and into what was New Moladion.
They can see new paths into what was once a impenetrable forest - Taviora, the would-have-been Scotavia and Remora Plains if the meteor had not struck. They can see the rolling plains of Asteraia where once Ferrine had bordered Japaras Lake, along with Astra Clearing - the place of Seamus and Fenrir’s conception - overlaying the place of old Ferrine. A little farther, squinting eyes could see where Trenus was now built back up as Diveen. Then to their right, a great spire of a mountain - the remnants of Solevion and Mirovis, now Spirane. Beyond that, past the trees - too - they know is where Iromar has been laid in the place of Paracon, their sharp cliffs turned into marsh… and beside that, Glorall - child kingdom of Litherum and Judila.
Oh how the memory washes over them, men just a little past their prime by two years - and yet all that age, all that knowledge, cannot stop the whooping and hollering they make as they careen down towards what was once Indarus Thicket (the place of Ifrit’s own conception) and was now Enocra Woodlands. The world is theirs for the taking, yet, and they are glad to be back where they might find the life they should have led before Bahamut’s madness drove them from their fate and protected them from the meteor.
Once within the trees, the whooping stops, though the black and pale green male never does open his mouth or so much as prick his ears, and they become a unit. Seamus is just behind Neirin and Ifrit is to Neirin’s right flank, almost in line with Seamus as they run. Fenrir is not to be seen, hardly to be heard, and always ever watchful of his less dutiful two brothers. He follows not because he could not lead, only that he did not want the attention - and Neirin was not only capable but talented and eye catching.
Even now, the world glittered around the golden male, his cream and sunlight-through-honey coat catching the breaks in the canopy. They run for no purpose other than to cover ground like this, and it means that within the time it takes to make Seamus pant, Ifrit has fallen behind a full two strides, forcing Seamus to swing out to Neirin’s left flank to avoid retribution for running ahead of the much larger and far more particular pack-brother. “We stop here.” the blue eyed brother says, golden fur shaken out as if it was more of an irritant to stop rather than to run.
The three visible ones do, but there is the shuffle of branches and leaves on the forest floor enough to tell the party that their fourth member had moved beyond and would scout around them for food, water, and safety.
Brown ears perk in the direction of the fading pad-foot steps leaving them without breaking pace and pink eyes turn to fix on blue, “We cannot let him become complacent. Losing Doe outside of Moladion has done him no kindnesses. It seems that the bond does not lessen when a pair is together outside of the place...” and there is pain in his voice, pain because it proves he could not have saved his son from the painful love gifted to a queen who picked another for her king - no matter the sense it had made or the passion that had been present.
“He did not mourn like this for his mate, that is true...” he comments, though hardly at all as if it concerned him that Fenrir was off his steak. “What will we do here, Neirin? Planning a princely takeover?” the red wolf’s teeth gleam, his color not unlike arterial spray on gold thrones.
“You know me better, Ifrit. I have not been a prince since Trenus and no warmongerer since the Royal Bears were put to permanent hibernation. I rule us, and that is enough.” a distinct sharpness of eye turns blue brighter and makes bright green shift away. Dominance between them and in their group has been established almost since a year of age and did not change. Ifrit had only grown wiser around eight years of age, but it has been nine years since that.
“But I have heard that the gypsies have all but moved on or disappeared - Ifrit is right to ask, brother, even if you do not want to tell.” comes the clever reasoning and peaceability that kept the group from tearing each other apart over needless arguments. “We will hunt, we will sleep, and we will kill anyone who tries to separate us.” interjects a low, gravelly, and growling timbred voice from the dark of a thicket where he had returned in silence to hear the end of the ongoing discussion. “And we will not question anything more of Neirin.” he finishes, crossing between the trio to lay hind-first against a wall of briars to protect his flanks.
“Peace, Fenrir. The run has them energized,” he says soothingly so that the black wolf drops his head to the earth and looks distinctly at Ifrit despite it. “Is there hunting enough for four?”
“For now.”
WE ALWAYS FIND OUR WAY BACK HOME
the first children of the original moladion packs
of trenus | of scotavia | of solevion | of ferrine
shining prince | dragonborn | red barron | shadow-grin
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