Starfall, Guardian, Mithos, Ambrosia, Zaphkiel, Celeste, Iophiel. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. She names them, counts them, thinks of them each in turn; their faces, their voices, and each and every unanswered question that orbits them. Mother, Andromeda, and father, Azrael, gone to the stars, or to the endless fields, to wherever it is their souls found one another. She finds certainty, comfort, in that. Even as lost as she could be, as full of questions as she was, at least she always knew one thing with certainty. She was born Elara, and still is, named for a moon that drifts and drifts, further and further away. Elara, named for a moon who orbits the wrong way, who drifts in and out of paths and lives of its siblings, its mother-planet, its home. She is Elara, and she names her siblings one by one as her weary legs drag her back into the orbit of their lives - or, at least, the place of their lives, their mother-planet.

Sleet falls and surrounds her like a ghostly veil. She feels tiny diamonds of ice on the tips of her fur, the cold unfurling across her skin and finding home in her very bones. The tundra, she realizes, is no kind place. The sun taunts her, a hazy specter of warm light behind the clouds, watching as she clambers across the winter snows. Still, she is resilient, unwilling to bend to nature so easily. Besides, she knows it is very much her fault for having miscalculated her time or arrival. She was more lost than she thought, and it has taken her longer than anticipated to wash up onto the badlands of Moladion. She huffs, ghosts rising from her mouth, but she staggers on with heavy, deliberate steps.

Just as she feels the cold truly take hold, the sleet dies. It fades into mist, a haze, and then into nothingness as the sun begins to find its way home too. Slowly but surely, she feels the diamonds of ice melt away. With a sense of relief, and a sigh, she finds herself within the vast nothingness of the tundra, the winter sun bearing down on her. The snow is illuminated, her breath curling up to embrace the sun with an unspoken thank you.

She is a statue for some time. Face to the sun, eyes closed. Only her fur gives her away, gently playing with the breeze as she simply basks in the sudden warmth of the day. Somewhere on the horizon, she is sure, more grey clouds lurk. But for now, she is home. She knows it is home because the cold is gone, and she can hear the far-off sounds of familiar pine forests and rocky, towering crags. No, she can feel it. Yes, she feels it. Her toes flex, and she becomes aware of somebody nearby. Somebody, she thinks, curious enough to investigate a wolf who may very well appear half-frozen, a victim of the storm. Her eyes open suddenly, owl-yellow and intense. If she is to be investigated, then she ought to investigate back. As weary as she is, she feels herself drifting closer and closer to home. Strangers, she knows, are part of that home.