Rainclouds settled over Molodian and judging by the horizon, Nyteshade did not think they were going to be leaving anytime soon. The drizzle become intermittent deluges. After frolicking with Menkhet for the past evening, Nyteshade had taken off on his own once more, intending to track down his wayward father. In this case, Nyte was actually the wayward one. He knew for certain that Blackthorne would NOT be pleased when he found him after having been away for so long and coming back with little to no news. The trails that his father left were convoluted and Nyteshade had never been a particularly keen tracker. He just didn’t have the nose for it nor the patience, his ears finally spinning back in irritation. If Blackthorne wanted him to find him, he should have just stayed put.

Mood akin to his fathers, mecurial and prone to violence, Nyteshade stomps southward in a straight line towards Iromar. One by one he would peek into the packs in search of his father and in search of information. Anything, really, to distract his mind. The further he goes, the wetter it gets, and his mood sours more. Silver-green eyes seemed to snap with an internal fire and when his steps scare up a jackrabbit from some brambles, he pounces. Nyteshade moves as swift as an asp, uncoiling and lunging, grabbing the creature by it’s hind foot.

The rabbit screams, kicking out at him with it’s other powerful hind leg, scratching a line down his muzzle. He snarls around the leg, biting down until it snaps, feeling a sense of gratification at the sound before slamming the rabbit into the ground, placing a paw on it’s face, grabbing it and snapping it’s neck. The tension begins to slide from his body, the release of his anger, though at the expense of the rabbit that so unluckily moved at the wrong time. Nyte picks it back up by the hind leg and trots across the rushing waters of the Aplos Riverside at it’s lowest point, which now reaches to his chest with it’s churning waters. Soaking and carrying the dead hare he pads past the border of Iromar and straight into the moors.

The land is squishy beneath his feet. The moors soak up the rain, becoming spongy and wetlands the further south one was to go, but he merely moves to a familiar knoll near the northern border and sits down. Nyte drops the hare haphazardly at his feet, one paw placed possessively over it, and stares out at the land. It is the same and different. As a pup it had looked bigger, more dangerous. Now it looks plain but also special.

Tilting his head slightly he sits, waiting, for an indeterminate amount of time before abruptly saying into the rain, ”I was born here.” Would the rain say anything back?