Blackfoot Forest when night fell she placed hand upon breast; prayed for weeping days of rain

Sudden understanding blossomed within him, like a tiny ripple in a pond. Remembrance and forgiveness. For details, he would not pester her. For some reason, she had turned away from her own faith. It was not his duty to harangue her--but perhaps he could steer her toward his own.

"An altar?" he mused quietly, intrigued. "In my faith, we have no altars--there is only one rule, that prayers must come under the stars. It is not an opportune time for me," Phocion added wryly, his muzzle tugging with a half-smile as he glanced up toward the sun-dappled forest canopy.

"This lifestyle in general is not ideal," he continued, idly scanning around for bursts of purple or yellow, vivid against the drab backdrop of winter. "I prefer the night. Wolves are not at their best during Ileana's reign."