* I rambled, too. Please do not feel obligated to match the length. >
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[/html]The storm from the previous night had finally passed over, surging across Nova Scotia to pass onward into Canada. It left behind flooded fields, debris, and a chill that tickled his fur. The ground squelched underfoot as he walked casually between the pastures, ears set back, and hands deep in his pockets. The horses, having been boarded for the night, and the majority of the morning, were restless. He could still hear the occasionally whinny from the barn, which was now well over a mile away. He reckoned Haven was still there, tending to each animal's individual needs; there were some that weathered the storm worse than others, and were easily spooked by loud noises. They'd led a few of them into the pastures to stretch their legs, and enjoy a nibble of fresh, rain flecked grass.
With reassurance from Haven, Locke had been ushered out of the barn to get some fresh air and explore a greater area of his new home. The knight had motioned in the direction of various landmarks, and it was clear that Cour des Miracle lands were simple to traverse. Travel was made even easier by use of the horses that made up one of the defining features of the misfit pack; why he still referred to them as misfits was yet to be understood, but he had an inkling that when Haven said "everyone" that he literally meant anyone: from dogs, to coyotes and any species in between. It wasn't anything unusual to Locke, who'd made company with the foulest of 'yotes, to the friendliest of Labrador shifters. War tended to bring folks together, after all. Couldn't take your pick of your company without being in with the big wigs.
The fences soon dwindled, and came to an end as he left the pastures. However, he didn't turn around and head back here; he continued walking, and walking, and soon broke into a dead run. His feet carried his lithe body easily across the damp fields, water splashing with each connection with the earth; he ran faster, drowning out all sound save for the wind roaring in his ears. His eyes burned, from both the wind and his pain. He'd pushed it away when he was with Haven, but now that he was alone, there was no barricade against the anguish that returned to rip him apart. There was still a task he had to do, and he refused to ignore it for long; tonight, he would find the perfect spot for their grave, and bury both his wife, and their children. It was an undertaking no man should ever face, but Locke knew he had to do it himself; there was no one here who would understand their story, and he was incapable of putting it into proper words.
Locke ran until his legs burned, and fields gave way to civilization. He didn't know how many hours had passed, or how far he'd gone. The only thing he was certain of was that he was still well within Cour des Miracles lands, and that his body burned like fire. Slowing to a stiff lope, he approached what seemed to be an ancient hotel. The stones were worn, and dark from weathering, and ivy covered the darker corners. Locke stumbled to the gate, and placed his hands on the cool, slick metal, and wrenched it open with a loud, grinding squeak. He moved into the courtyard, looking in absolute shambles; mud flecked his legs, and his pants were damp to the knees; his bandanna was off-center, and his platinum hair was in disarray. The sky chose then to open up, and rain began to fall, swiftly picking up to what would soon be a downpour.
Pushing himself a little further, he sought shelter under the overhang, and leaned against the massive wooden door. To his surprise, it moved, as if it was still being used often. Blinking, he grasped the handle and jerked it open; beyond was a massive foyer, with corridors branching off from it. The rain spattered against the ground behind him, ushering him inside where it was cool, but dry. Taking the edges of his coat, he flapped it a few times to shake the water from it before straightening it over his chest. He took a few steps forward, keen hearing listening for any signs of life. There was clear evidence that this hotel was used often by the pack, and that someone, or someones were currently residing here.
Bracing himself against the old, dusty greeting desk, he hollered, "Hello? Anyone here?" He tried, listening as his voice echoed off the halls. He brushed his free hand across the hilt of the dagger, securing it's position at his hip, in the event that his allies were not the ones roaming the halls.