His ears are out to the sides, his countenance despairing, eyes fixed on the earth as wolves enter this hallowed place. He is one of the younger few who would attend, he thinks, and he is hardly the kind of young man to invade the privacy of others - much less invade the privacy of his elders.

He is cautious and meticulous in his choice of path, in his choice of footsteps, crackling almost not at all and thereby preserving the reverent aura of the whole place. He does not know Azrael. He does not know Andromeda. “Look grandmother. Behold, how beautiful art thou, even now. See how your soul shines out from all of these who surround you. What wondrous color!” Isola, though, for her he mourns deeply. It was her who discovered him first outside of his beloved (though missing) parents. It was her who inspired him to kindness.

He only looks up at last when he designed to look upon the place where the three had been laid for their final and prayerfully peaceful respite from this mortal coil.

The gasp that parts his maw is bare, but decidedly clear in the sudden peace between spoken word and howled mourning. “Look grandmother. Behold, how beautiful art thou, even now. See how your soul shines out from all of these who surround you. What wondrous color!” His eyes wide, he gazes about himself at the rainbow of glowing wolves - colored not of their own fur but by the passionate feelings that abounded in them all. He sees the love and pride and sorrow and desperate need, he sees the soul connection that these resplendent three had made among many - near all - of the members of this sanctuary’s congregation.