There was no reason for him to be going out of his way to the city for materials; there was plenty to be had in his own personal storerooms and plenty more fabric in his studio to be used. What drew him to the city that day was more supplies, decorations, the like. It had been a quiet march without Noss to distract him. But Strel had always gone to the city on his own, without the man. It was no different now that they happened to be linked more or less permanently in title and emotion. This was the time that the tailor took away from his duties in the pack, even though they were now numerous and had high importance. He needed the time to himself and it was vital that he escape the duty he had accepted.

Strel managed to wake before sunup so that he could make his way to the city in the quiet. Birds had come out by the time he reached the echoing dead streets of the lost human civilization. His nails clicked on the cement, chipped, worn and cracked from nature's raw power. Weeds blossomed between huge rifts between one slap of cement and another, small little bushes forming and dandelions bright yellow. The foliage was blatantly ignored as the redheaded illiterate man walked his way toward anywhere. Anywhere with a fabric store, at least. It was quiet, though he could hear the echoes of others. Of course, the city was not completely deserted anymore. Oh well, thought the man.

What he had not expected was someone to be hovering near the last store he had visited. The stranger seemed vaguely familiar, but Strel was already barreling towards halfway to his fifth birthday. Age was creeping up on him, but his vitality and virility was still strong. The man was near the shop, and Strel could not help but pause as he approached the building. He seemed a little too familiar for it to be coincidence. Few others wore clothes as gaudy as he liked, even though his today were plainer; white shirt and modified jeans. But this man was just garish. Even that seemed familiar.

The man addressed him. Him. With his name, as though he knew him. The redhead paused, no froze. Froze was more appropriate as his eyes widened in surprise. shock evident. Rarely did he encounter a soul who knew him when he himself did not recognize the speaker. Strel gripped the straps of his bags tight, feeling the supple leather digging into the pads of his hands. The man's appearance struck so many chords in him that he knew he had to have known him. But when? Who was this man who knew him? Who knew his name and still knew his appearance? Strel had not changed much over the years, had he?

Eying the stranger, Strelein cocked his head slightly to the side, one eye peering at Vincent. Those features were coming back into his memory, from the back of his mind. Whoever this man was, his identity was buried so deep in the recesses of his mind that he was having such a hard time even figuring out where it had had happened. If it had even happened. Maybe he was dreaming. Frowning, the redhead furrowed his brows, shallow lines forming. "Do.. I know you?" He thought he would, or else the man had heard of him elsewhere. But he was so damn familiar. Who was he?

The name rung a bell. And that bell was loud, violent, and wrong. Strelein's voice felt lost to him as he felt something lodge in his throat. Vincent. Of course it was him. But it had been so long ago that the redheaded man had long since buried the memories of Toronto. When was the last time he had recalled what had happened there? It had been so long. So very long. And he had thought himself lucky to have forgotten all of it, even if he did not remember the city with loving memory. And Vincent was a name he thought of only with the most mixed emotions. Vincent had been kind to him, but he had shown his true colors. Strel left the city because of it. And the gang wars in the area. It was more than what he could tolerate.

His grip intensified on the leather strap, digging in ever harder. Strel did not know how to react, and he usually did. Vincent should not be here. There was no reason for him to be here. Why was he here? "Vincent?" he said stupidly, repeating the name. It fell off his seemingly numb tongue. The redhead's ears began to flatten as he almost shrank in his clothes at the memories of the man. He had really not changed much; the same garish clothes, the same ginger hair. Even those green eyes were so familiar. "Why are you here?" he asked, straightening. He was Dauphin. He had to be proud and rigid. He had to be strong.

There was a small flicker of pride in himself when Vincent frowned. Strel had long since stopped trying to forget about Vincent; he did not need to. The man was gone from his mind. But now he was back in full force and it was all that Strel could do but make the man upset. Despite this small flicker of pride, the man felt a greater flame of fear. That was what happened from being drugged into sleep and taken who knew where. How could this man come here to seek him out now? It was unfathomable and the redheaded man could not believe it. He had to be a ghost. Why would he come from Toronto? Vincent had a life there and Strel did not. Halifax was only slowly growing into a place where more canines gathered.

No. No, he could not be here. Strel's face hardened at the sight of a grin on that ginger's face. Face twisting into a growl, the tailor found himself in an uncommon sign of aggression. But that faint glow of fear remained in his eyes. As much as he had liked Vincent, that had been tainted with the laced drink. How could he ever forgive him? "That's a pretty terrible excuse," he growled out, slipping the bag off his shoulders and onto the ground. "How dare you?" His usually higher voice edged lower than normal. "You drug me and expect me to be happy to see you over two years later?"