The directions he had followed from both Naniko and Ibycus had proved to be very useful. Naniko had helped him get from the damp woods, all the way to ethereal eclipse, and from there the brute Ibycus had gave him directions to here. Where was here? Frodo didn’t entirely know. He couldn’t remember what it was called, the place just outside his pack… oh yes, now he remembered. The Serena Reserve. It meant he was very close to home. Or, what he called his home anyway. He supposed it wasn’t his home anymore, but he was determined to rejoin the pack. AniWaya was the only home he had ever had, and ever would have, he told himself. The gypsy boy felt he fit in there, fit in like he did not anywhere else.

It was just west from here. Frodo had mostly regained his strength from ordeals outside of souls, and was looking a tad more like his normal self. The slightly short, slim youth leapt off his steed in a gallant manor and lifted his chin to the breeze, inhaling the air. Yes, just west from here. But, it would be nice to look his best when he finally did get to the pack. So he got ready a little.

Frodo took his best blue shirt - he only had three shirts - from Strider’s saddle bags and changed into it, wincing as the fabric passed over the tender wounds on his back. The puckered skin felt itchy, and he shivered in protest as pain began to dance across his chest and shoulders. But then the pain was gone.

Frodo had no comb, but the mane on his head was naturally silky and needed little to no upkeep. He rummaged around and found a few fresh flowers and feathers to tie into his fur, and then wrapped the olive green cloak around his shoulders. The curly furred youth sighed with the pleasure of being able to go on foot from here- he loved to ride, but being in the saddle for days made you stiff. The first thing he would do when he got home, would be to run through the fields with the wind on his face. He swung his quiver onto his back, and clasped his beautiful, blood-oak bow in one hand. The smooth wood felt beautifully firm, and oh-so familiar. "Come." gestured Frodo to the uneasy stallion by his side. And soon they were plodding through the mysterious forest together, side by side and trusting of each other. Mr Silvetongue purposefully strode with a determined gait, treading ferns and pine underfoot as he made his way home. But despite being on his way back, Frodo felt uneasy. He could smell blood, and death, and fighting. And war. "I amar prestar aen. Han mathon ne chae." he muttered to himself uneasily, in the strange tongue it seemed only a few could utter.