August 05, 2016, 12:27 PM
The pack had gathered and spoken of many things, and through it all he had been mute. The thought of violence did not appeal to the soft-hearted Renoir, nor did he have any inclination of becoming a warrior in any regard; it frightened him, truth be told, that the Mayfairs would talk so openly about something so vile. He worried that his beloved, his little darling Deirdre, would be tainted by the mere mention of aggression. He could not fathom seeing her become something so otherworldly, so out of place, and sought her out after the bulk of the wolves had meandered away. Without speaking he had implored for her to follow, and oh, his heart felt like it would break! Renoir departed from his home of Donnelaith and made a bee-line for the white sands adjacent, but he did so at such a speed that Deirdre became lost, and once he finally came to a halt to look for her, he did not see her. In time he hoped she would meet him here, and so he lingered and waited, watched the dark and rolling sea, and listened to the crickets hum. But he was nervous still — always — because he so loved the perfect little woman, and he hoped desperately that she would come to meet him here, but his mind could not fathom what they would do if they were to reunite.