As he always did, Larkspur hunted as a wolf. He had observed others use their two legged form, armed with pointy sticks and bows and all sorts of contraptions, but found this to be tiresome. His hands were stupid and could not craft fine weapons, just as they could not wield them. He was suited to hard work instead—between the horse, the house, and the boy, his hands were full. Though his ward was kin, the name and peculiar draw to arcane places was where the resemblance ended. Harlowe was much softer then Larkspur, having been raised as a pack wolf, and it showed.
While he worked the boy as hard as he could, Larkspur could not rely on him for food. Furthermore, as a Jager, his role was to hunt not only for himself but for the pack as a whole. Conor, whom Larkspur had seen only once, had never called upon him for this. Haku had known better then to ask. The only thing that Larkspur had owed Haku was battle, which he had participated in dutifully. Beyond that, he was left alone.
Larkspur enjoyed being alone. He never felt truly alone as long as he wore the can tah, for its whispering voice comforted him daily. Some nights, when he could not sleep, he would go back to the blue pool where he and Eris had gone (where the smell of death had left, buried in the earth) and stare into the water and listen. Sometimes the eagle spoke, and sometimes the water spoke. Larkspur held conversations with the spiders in the language of the dead, which they seemed to respond to.
This was his way. So too, was the hunt. He stalked through overgrown trails like a wraith, feet soft despite his large size. Ahead of him, a patch of underbrush moved. Almost instantly, the wolf had charged it. He spooked the hare into a chase, which lasted only seconds. He had been lucky in startling the now-dead hare, which hung triumphantly in his jaws. While the big male could have eaten the thing in a few bites, he began carrying it back towards his home. After all, he had to attend to his rather smart, but rather useless ward.
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