Dead eyes shine with a peculiar light that is only ever present in his company. She returns home to him this day, a rather plump and fat pheasant hanging from her slender and petite jaw. The thought of her lateness does not come to her mind- she hadn't even been asked to do what she had done, and yet she had gone all the same. For him, as she would do anything in this world and the next for him.

Glacial irises with their flares of red are eager to find his tall frame the deeper she travels in the seaside pack of her home, her prize and gift from the plains pack swinging idly as black paws carried her along. Asteraia had a sea scent all its own, much like Glorall, and while the two were similar they were also vastly different. The main part of that for Achlys being the lack of his scent, something she had not particularly liked in her time away. But now, now she was practically swamped by it, and even more so as she neared the place she thought his den to be. Silence is her shadow and companion as she approaches, though there is hardly an aim to stealth or sneak. The petite wolf simply has her mouthful, and out of anything she had always preferred hearing his voice and hearing him speak. It is not a common occurrence for her, but little Achlys finds herself wondering if he will like this gift she had brought him. Much like she had brought him her friend the seal, even if he had torn into the flesh and consumed him so ravenously.

Had he been any other wolf, the black and white girl would be appalled and turned away. But it was him, and much like her fascination with the dead she is all too obsessed with him. It is almost a feverish thing, so hungry and hot at all times that she never wants to be away. And now that he has given her this home, their home, she will never be away from him. She will be just where she belongs, as she is now, finally at a stand still a few feet away from the entrance to his den. She does not enter, as it is his own place, and much like she knows he is here he will know she is as well. Thus she waits, with patience never truly learned but accepted and understood. When all the friends of one consist entirely of the dead save for that one singular mind- well, the concept of patience is rather lost in that mindset. Achlys needn't make a sound as she stands, bright and insanely intense eyes focused on where he would emerge from. And she does so hope to see his face so very well pleased.