Some wolves had dreams, but Tychon had nightmares. Waking or sleeping, it didn’t really matter. The world of his unconscious mind was covered in dense forest. So dense, a wolf couldn’t see beyond the infected, swollen ferns. Tychon was lost, unable to even smell a direction that would seem promising. No caves, no water, no prey. There was only the intoxicating floral aromas of plant pus. He was haunted by the knowledge that there was a monster chasing him. And one further more, that didn’t just want to kill him. It wanted to steal one of his limbs. He was powerless agains the creature, and so his only option was to run, to stay whole for just little long. For just a few more strides…

Tychon heard a howl. An eerie, lone howl that whispered the word ”Mundare” into his ears. The howl made him stop running, and a second one evaporated the dreamscape the desperate noise grated on his ears; his dream-self flattened to the ground in agony because of it. His real-self and dream-self merged when his lethargic mind peeled his lids away from his eyes. His ears hurt with the sharp, real, holler. Tychon covered his ears with his paws, but a third howl ensured his consciousness. Who was the bastard that was making that racket?!

Bristling, Tychon stomped out of his den. Maybe Arthfael would follow, being Tychon’s guard, but maybe he could sleep through the wretched howls. His ears quickly located the direction he needed to travel in, and he strode off with a vengeance towards the noise. The air was so cold, that crystal hunt in the air like stones at the bottom of the lake. They felt like they were pelting him with frigid ferocity. Stupid that he was up this late. His temporary den was cozy and warm… he wanted to return to it soon before the cold erased the heat from where he’d been laying.

Tychon reveal himself over the crest of a mountain path to where the border marked on of the entrances to Spirane. The starlight ignited his amber eyes into volatile flames. The gruesome damage to the right side of his face was highlighted when he stepped to the apex of the steep, though short hill. The unintentional snarl of his muzzle caused his harsh words to be lined with threat, “Shut up and get lost.”

Afterwards, it occurred to Tychon that she smelled strangely, like three different packs. What was she? Some sort of mooch? Spirane already had gypsies wintering with them - they didn’t need more thieves to take advantage of their mountains. Oh shit. He was starting to think like a pack wolf.