It was strange, for him, to come back here. He had considered, repeatedly, that it would have been easier to assume them all dead or gone and not make the journey south. Anatole loved the wild and the vast tundras of the north. To come back to a land that valued two legs and soft, human ideas…well, it was not something he had wished to do. Obedience was not a part of his blood, or upbringing, but he certainly intended to honor his mother’s request. If that damned raven had ever learned to speak, he was certain it would have agreed with him.
Before he was able to question the woman about what had changed, a familiar scent washed up from behind her. He found that his cousin’s form was surprisingly changed—perhaps older, more ragged, more worn. Something was wrong about this place, and something terrible had come through these lands. While his eyes bored questions at the pale wolf, Claudius’ characteristic lack of adding much to the conversation forced his gaze back to the woman. “What happened here?” He asked, dark fur fluttering in the winter’s encroaching breeze.
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