Sometimes one did not need to search out when all they had to do was search within.
Earlier in the day Arthfael had wandered around the wooded area outside of the grotto, picking up dead trails and searching for some game to settle the ache in his belly. He had learned to discipline himself. Hunger did not phase him, it did not eat away at him. He had learned strength of will and patience; it was not often that he went and hunted but when he did it was with an unusually high rate of success. It seemed that strength of mind lent many new characteristics to hunting as well and he had managed to catch two fat pigeons that had tried to nest in a low-lying bush. They were stupid birds, really, but delicate and tender to the tastes once you got past all the feathers. Those could be put to use for bedding or other things, he guessed, but the more practical side of him didn't really want to deal with the hassle of them. Since the day Spirane had fallen he had left, sometimes wandering with his pal Viserion and other times splitting up to scout around the wild lands.
His nature required solitude at times, a forced separation to harden the mind and strengthen the soul. Too much noise, too much motion, it drove him to distraction and distraction caused lots of errors. He had learned such when he had intercepted the attack on Jeager and Dragonfly, his shoulder twinging in phantom pain at the healed wound.
The black, gray, and white male had dropped his catches in a secured spot in the grotto, a hollowed out space in the rock hidden in darkness. The scents around the entrance were days old at best and it seemed many of the loners had moved on from their temporary housing so he had decided it would be his spot for the night. The rumbling in the distance had confirmed it was a good choice and he had climbed up one sloping hill so that he stood on top of a piece of the grotto. For a time he sat there, eyes closed and nose pressed to the wind as it whipped through his fur in a frenzy. It set his blood afire, a blaze that mimicked the rumbling sound of thunder and the distant crack of lightning. In this very moment he could take on the world, he felt, but he did not wish to take on a cold.
He had meandered down to the entrance well before the storm hit, pressing himself deep into the cavern and stretching out with a yawn as he lay there. The sound echoed in the space but it was comforting, wild and fierce. It is only the sound of paws scraping across dirt that draw his attention, that push him from the dull state of mind to a more active one. Odd white eyes, pale, open to spy a shadowed figure at the entrance where the rain poured atop the overhand in a deluge. He lifts his muzzle, nostrils twitching to catch the wet scent of her. He smells it then, the wet scent of Asteraia that clings to her, and his body rises of it's own accord as he shuffles towards her from the back, not trying to keep his presence hidden.