I travel with intent driving every paw step upon the marshes of Iromar. My pink and jade gaze is determined as pale brows are brought downward in a solemn expression. Aithne had given me a task and I would see to it that it would be completed. But first I must take care of my own personal agenda.

It did not go unheard of what had happened to the young Consul among the ranks and it was my personal duty to do something of it. I moved among the reeds and bushes to seek out the most recent gathering of scents that included Aithne and Raven’s. My head lowered to the sodden earth as my nose inspected every inch of the terrain until I found the location. Among the mixture of the two females were two male scents; one tainted in the odor of Diveen and the other entirely distant to any pack save for Iromar. But this wolf was no Iromanian. My gaze lifts back up as I have the culprit’s scent logged into my brain and begin to pivot so that I may leave in search for him.

It is the scent of fear and childbirth that draws my attentions away from the borders of the moorland before I am able to leave. It wafts toward me upon a slight spring breeze and it is only in my nature that I ensure my fellow pack member is safe. It is not often that a mother is fearful unless something is terribly wrong.

The cries of loons echo through the trees as my direction is shifted and paws of pale gray move to investigate the den that the mother lays within. When I approach closer is only when I am able to determine that it is, in fact, Raven’s scent that lingers below the earth. Soft hued eyes peer down into the darkness a couple of feet away from the entrance, neck curving downward, and ears pricked forward. My expression does not falter from its solemnness, however my voice is gentle. ”Raven…” her name is spoken simply in the case that she does not wish company to arrive. But I must be sure that no other harm has come to her in this time.

I am careful in that I do not wander too closely to the mouth of the den, for fear that instinct demands she protect the newborn, but the tugging feeling of crawling into the den to comfort her presses at the back of my mind. Perhaps I have a soft spot for mothers due to my own history.

life of seven years | of lurid & jumanji | saved by elara | promised to none | lost soul