Conifers tower over him, inundating the air with their citrusy aroma; for a moment Quixote can swear he tastes ash upon his tongue, feel the suffocating thickness of smoke in his lungs – this place is too much like home. A shudder runs from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail, shaking the memory free from the present. Even though they had been invited, even though Coquette seemed so eager to come here, there is a tearing in his chest anytime he traces Taviora’s borders. Behind those imposing ashen pillars lies a minefield of the too-familiar and Quixote hesitates to test his limits. But he does, for Coquette, because he knows this is that will make her happy, and she had been so patient with him and his wanderlust.

This is not home, this is not home, this is not—he stops mid-thought, and for the first time in a long time he is overwhelmed with hope. Those colors – he knows those colors! A smoldering burnt umber over tawny, it isn’t a perfect match, but in the heat of the moment it is close enough that Quixote is fooled, at least at first. He bounds forward, his gait full of pup-like energy, his ears perked forward toward – the name “Dad” on his tongue died before he had the chance to utter it. He slows as instantaneously as he had accelerated, confusion flickering across his face. His father did not sound like that, he did not have a green eye – he had not escaped the fire and tracked them here. Suddenly Quixote sees the Alpha for what he is: a stranger. The burning desire to turn and flee flared, until someone else happened to capture his attention.

"Paisley!" Her name is shouted before he even knows he’s done it, her whimper spurring his haste. He doesn’t think about how he must appear darting through someone else’s territory, doesn’t consider that this stranger could very well consider him an intruder or a threat – after all, Quixote doesn’t know just how much stock to put in an invitation from pups. All he knows is Paisley is here, curled upon the ground and she could be hurt! Those thoughts make him irrational (something his is usually loathe to be), he needed to know what was wrong with her. There is something off about her, about her smell, about her eyes – it is unsettling. "Paisley, what’s wrong? Did… did he do something to you?" His amber gaze flitted up to the stranger, his body tensing from an amalgam of wariness and… some mangled emotion he couldn’t hope to name. In all honestly, this stranger didn’t seem aggressive, and there was part of Quixote that wanted to believe this stranger was innocent – but he had to be sure.