Perhaps more than the rest, Razekiel was far more estranged. Former Dahlians had other former Dahlians to stick by until they met the rest of their new packmates of the Valley, and of course that worked vice versa; Razekiel, on the other hand, was almost entirely on his own.
He would not reveal to those around him that it dug at him deeply. He knew very well that many of the Valley and Dahlians were hardly happy with him or with the changes forced so suddenly upon them — well, perhaps "forced" was too strong a word. They'd had their choice, and now all the coyote could do was try to comfort and ease them into a life they weren't used to. It would be a difficult task, indeed.
How was he even going to do that, anyway? Well, he certainly didn't know. It would take time, and he was not about to force himself upon them... so-to-say. Instead, he lay face up in the grass, staring up at the clouded sky, contemplating such things. After some time it became frustrating, especially without the aid of marijuana to ease his thoughts to a slower pace, and instead Razekiel found himself rolling about on his back instead, tongue lolling despite the giddy giggles that escaped his maw. How strange the sky was, such a bright color without the tinge of his rose-tinted glasses to color it beautiful! It needed no such manipulation, of course; the Great Mother bore unspeakable beauty especially in rawest form.
Air untainted by the usual reek of marijuana that clouded him, the coyote noticed other scents much more directly, and one loomed in the air clear as day. Two scents? Bah, his mind was surely tricking him. The prince rolled onto his stomach, bramble and grass possessing his face and fur like a wild demon, straw eyes dotting from place to place in search for the source. One, out of sight; the other, rather frustrated in her stalking of the borders. He did not walk to join her, no; he rolled, stomach to back and back again a dozen times over, until he rolled up right next to her, bright eyes and four legs dangling in the air like a child.
"Hello, peach," he grinned, undaunted by her apparent foul mood. "Your fur's like a painting, man; a real groovy motley of brush strokes 'n' rain, man. I dig it."
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