it had taken some time to heal after the bear disrupted his life. oh, no, not the ones (three wolves high) that had congregated in a posse to overthrow the relatively free lives of the wolves in nanrua-- the kind they had fought and defeated as brothers-- the one that Bahamut became known as “Bear’s Bane” for… a normal, though large enough for these lands, hibernation-deprived lunatic of a grizzly bear.

‘thing had been big, but his brothers were with him. the spirit of their pack was with him.
and the only thing about being the most astute of four brothers, and simultaneously the smallest and leanest, though, is being right square in place for a busted hindquarters and a nasty recovery time when you make it in time to stop the walking bulwark.

and in the end, it wasn’t only his stealth and claim to fame that he lost -- it was two of four brothers. ifrit had gone as fate could only have intended, shame for the lass and his nephews and nieces, as it was. neirin had gone before the depression and martyrdom could have faded him -- before the shining prince could become the dull prince instead-- and with knowledge of a son whom fenrir seemed secretly obsessed about meeting…

only natu had spared the golden, mystery, changeling, boy from being hunted and rousted from bed to be brought to nanrua with the rest. they had always done this for their children, after all. gave them a brotherhood in which they might always find a ‘home’ and ‘family’ in the face of moladion’s bastardized views of such things.

overall, the children had fared better than could be thought possible - resilient as they had to be to even be bothered with by fate in any case. most had gone separate ways -- and his other son with his mother before they had even gone on the journey to nanrua -- and the few remaining were set to staying in the forests of what was once scotavia

he didn’t mind, of course, he knew fenrir’s women were always prone to taking him and elsewhere now and again. it was a tragic flaw in each of them despite the delightful parts elsewise. the only hope was that natu would not meet the same tragedy as her predecessor when he could feel himself now on the downward slope of age and not likely prone to outlasting the next despair-tantrum the ole black spartan could throw.

for now he is determined that he should be at least as useful as to keep the ill or infirm -- or young -- entertained. it felt wrong for the shadow-grin, first son of ferrine, to take open standing charity.

brown with only darker points, moderately furred, gait ungainly with his injury, and small - he makes his way into the central hub of this pack’s particular leyline convergence (so to speak) and takes a breath. only to open it with a soft song in his wolf-tongue. the howl is gentle, but light instead of somber, telling any listener who cared to listen of Moon Mother, the goddess of his and his brother’s people.

he tells of a moonlit night when Mother Moon was bathing in the lake and a young golden wolf splashed into her reflection to catch her up and make her his. he tells of a time where there was only night and wolves ran rampant and free and wild-- and how this wolf wooed her soft and gentle until she took him up and shone brighter for his glittering presence in the sky… so brightly that other animals woke and liked him only the more, alls the better, because he had been the mightiest hunter and they no longer had anything to fear of him while he chased the stars away and gave his heat to the earth. they could see the predators now - and that now and again Moon Mother must remind him who is greatest - blot him out in the height of his prime in the sky.

His notes grow and fade, flare and simmer, as the story fits. he is a born talent with memory in such things, in almost all things, and a true minstrel. he collects the stories, embellishes or fades them, all in the name of his audience’s pleasure. it is the one thing he does not need help with these days, the telling of a good story.