They are a whisper in the trees, a rustle of leaf litter and a stroke across underbrush. They are young, but have been raised to be more than their age or single capabilities. They are older at heart than would lend to boisterousness or disturbance of the natural world around them. No, they are too keen, too aware of their Mother’s heartbeat, the heartbeat of the wildwood.

They are equal parts light and dark, one almost illuminated by the sun and one so dark that it almost defied the shine that broke through the trees - refused it’s glory.

They slow only as they reach a clearing, trotting to a stop and take in their immediate sphere of influence. It is thickly surrounded by bramble, three means of access easily watched in the proper positioning. They do not lay down, though, and instead take turns marking the clearing that is easily six leaps by six leaps. What did it matter to them the rules of Moladion? What place they laid upon could be called theirs in this way and they did not fret about packs or any other such nonsense.

“It is as good a place as one can hope to find in a foreign forest, I think.” The young black male says to his silver-topped off-white partner. “At least for as long as we need to find our heart-bond.” It is not hard to see that the black male is the head of the two, that the silver is solemn but obedient in his companions wake. “I know the Gray Lady said we would find her where desert meets ocean - but this is neither and I am not wearied enough not to feel an itch in my paws to keep going.” It is as much backtalk as the silvered male is prone to give. Discontented tone and implications that he would prefer to carry on did not, a refusal, make.

“We are better off not running our pads raw, Frost.” Firm statement followed by acquiescence from his companion makes for a return to complementary movements. They bed down at the center by a small cluster of small child-trees.