Curiosity killed the cat. It had once been one of his very favourite sayings, first proffered by his father on a particularly memorable day in his puphood when the scything talons of a passing eagle had almost carried him away. He felt the words thrumming through his bones as he followed the clamour of voices at an easy lope, and it became a kind of mantra that beat in steady rhythm to his heart. Still, he could not quell the fire of intrigue that burned in his chest, remnants of younger days spent exploring the ever-altering landscape of Trenus with his brother, Seraphiel. His majestic frame moved between the trees with surprising ease, long legs eating up the ground with dizzying swiftness. Not a leaf crackled underpaw, nor a branch groaned against his side as he raced beneath the shadows of the trees, fluffy pelt swathed in darkness. It was only when he emerged on the riverbank that the light caught the snow-white gleam of his pelt and glinted off the russet sword-tip markings that decked his ears and tail; marks of a king. It would have been clear to any that gazed upon him at that moment, that he was none other than the last born son of Heyel and Zeivah, final heir to the throne of Diveen and brother to its current queen, Isola. Only the most ignorant of commoners would allow themselves to believe that he was anything less. Especially since, like his father, he had an air of entitlement about him that was both alluring and ingratiating.

It fledged now in its full force, as he pushed passed throngs of muttering wolven to gaze at what had them all so interested. There, in the shallow water, a great bull elk lay in all the bitterness of death, the waters around him rank with his blood. Some had moved into the stream to gaze upon his prone form up close, while others had moved in to growl and snap over his rotting flesh. Ferox snorted with disgust and a hint of revulsion, for he had lapped downstream from that very spot earlier that morning. Around him the masses seemed equally as disturbed and at a loss, some shouting warnings, while others moved closer, hunger driving them. As he was not a slave to his desies like most of the commoners were, the white wolf had no such need to approach the carcass. He was content to gaze at it from afar, inhaling its sickly-sweet stench. Something about smelt wrong to the male, although what that was he could not decide. The whole situation was strange, so that even the trees seemed to have drawn back, afraid to be a part of such a happening. Ferox cast about, searching for any that might be kin, but his nose was not accustomed to such a tangle of scents and he struggled to pick one out from among the crowd.