The wolf remembered everything. He remembered the cold chill of foreboding that worked its way up his spine. He remembered the confusion he felt when he happened upon the unfamiliar scent of the Peak. He had not been expecting visitors. He remembered the sudden loneliness and emptiness that ate at his soul as Vanya and Drogon's absence began to become more and more apparent.

He had not forgotten.

The scent of the Peak mare was still fresh in his mind when Rille made his attack upon Paradise. The wolf had been furious, but Rougaru... Rougaru had been grateful. Though the beast had wanted to charge straight to the main island and demand answers from Wasp. The stallion was not prepared for such an encounter. Wasp was like a daughter to him; closer even. He had seen the potential in her when even she waned in her faith. He had reveled in her victory as any proud sire and balked at the idea of having to face her as an opponent in war. She, like many others, might not be his by lineage, but that did not mean he did not feel some sense of pride.

However he could not imagine that Wasp would welcome such a raid upon his shores. Surely. The wolf growled its disagreement but he would not believe it. Rille's attack had given the beast a much needed taste of blood. He had let his anger and rage boil and score wounds into the flesh of the Luthien stallion that might have been meant for the warrior women who took his precious ballerina.

Vanya. Even now the mention of her name brought images of red passion and her elegantly dancing figure. It had been some time since he felt the warmth of her skin or tasted the salt of her sweat between his teeth. To know that she had been taken before his foal had even had a chance to touch its hooves upon Paradise was a slap in the muzzle, and one he was near certain Vanya herself had planned out for herself.

Ears draw backwards as thick saucer-like hooves dig into the rocky soil that marked the borders of the Peak. Where normal customs might have found him waiting patiently at the border for an escort; today he crosses of his own accord and makes his way towards the lower highlands where he hoped he might come across Wasp or the damned haughty bitch that had dared to come upon his shores. Small perked ears stand at attention amid the damp curling tendrils of his cream and caramel colored mane. Paper thin nostrils flare as the beast curls his thickly muscled neck. Ashen labrums part as a bugle of summons rings from his lungs.

Patience has never been one of his strongest qualities but in this moment he does his best to exemplify the persona of patience. Small ears swivel and rotate, searching through the strange and unfamiliar sounds for hint or sight of his lost ballerina and Drogon.