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 wilds of nature.

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 the great clearing of Ruize Fields, trotting to a stop and take in their immediate sphere of influence. They do not lay down, though, and instead spend time exploring the great vastness of what was a beautiful flat expanse.

“It is as good a place as one can hope to find in a foreign place, I think.” The young black male says to his silver-topped off-white partner. He does not look at the male he addressed, so aware as he was of his soul-bound brother. “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. We can see the plateaus of one with potential, let that give you peace for now.” Firm statement followed by acquiescence from his companion makes for a return to complementary movements. They bed down for a moment, but that peace that Doyle had mentioned is broken as a multi-colored speck on the horizon becomes a female watering by the lake.

Frost rises first, looking at the female and then to Doyle as he also rose. They had both seen the direction from which she had come-- felt the pull of something promising leading her towards them. Perhaps they were not her fate, but both knew the face of their own oracle’s dream. A wolf as dark as Doyle and as soft as Frost.

Their approach was calm, purposeful, and when they stopped just beyond her, they waited in patient silence for her to acknowledge them. “You are a child of ocean and desert, are you not?” Doyle asks with all the glowing purpose of one who is on a mission beyond his own control.