He cannot help but think all hope is lost when it come to the ideology of family. Over and over, his definitions of such a word have failed him. Like the seasons, they came and went and with it, they took a small part of him each time. It wore him away and no longer does he search Taviora's borders for some inkling of his father, or some glimpse of his mother. Tuari is preoccupied, he finds, more than she is alone and as such, that word - alone - had become synonymous with him instead. Yoska, always alone. Yoska, a stranger in his own home and a vagrant without the will to roam. What had he become? What would he need to do to become something more substantial? He felt like air. Too light. Too willing to vanish into the leaves and trees and yet, too desperate to cling on to some slither of hope. Something would change and change was always good. He had nothing but that belief, but a sad, unwavering hope in a world too beautiful to crumble beneath the weight of desertion.

Still, he knows Taviora is a dark place for him now - beneath the weight of autumn's clouds and the storms that tore through the canopy, he cannot help but dream of somewhere vaster, or at least... less damp with memory. Each time he passes the den of his parents, he cannot help but feel a sudden flutter in his chest, as if a hummingbird has been trapped within his gullet. And so, he leaves the borders without grace, slumped and shy as he passes through the forests and heads east. The forests there might reflect Taviora and yet, he sees them as entirely separate. The leaves are brighter, the canopy more alive with movement and each scent is fresh and new. There are no shadows of his family lingering in his peripherals; it seems like years before his gait loosens as he passes into the free lands and yet, it does. His muscles move with a sudden grace, a sudden fluidity as he ambles through the golden forests. It is beautiful here and he cannot help but contemplate if this is the change he needs.

He gives in to his joy then and he basks in what remains of the sun as it breaks through the leaves above. It illuminates the chocolate and gold of his fur and for a moment, he feels as radiant as he appears. It is only when the familiar scent of blood wafts through the woods that he pauses; at first, he is hesitant. He sinks low suddenly, scooting off the sunbathed path and into the deep shadows and tangled roots. It takes him a moment to register the scent, separating it from the thick lupine musk that lingers on each and every leaf and gust of wind. He creeps forward ever so slowly, a practiced - presumably, at least - silence as he gains ground on the place of the kill. It is the blood of prey, and yet it lacks the stench of cougar or bear. Company? It makes his ears perk up, though he knows them to be nothing but ornaments on him. It adds to his normality, he thinks, and yet he regrets them each time he misses the sounds that others make.

He crawls forward then until he breaks through a line of shrubs and weeds; from there, he sees her, prey at her paws. She is a pale creature, like winter personified - or at least, he cannot help but think such a thing with her positioned behind the backdrop of fall. He cannot do much more than watch in those moments, his head tilted ever so slightly. He remains low to the earth, half emerged from the shadows and reeds. He does not mean to be so... intrusive and yet, he has merely found himself there by chance. What is he to do in such a state? He can merely wait, and offer the kindliest of smiles that he has to mean her no harm.