It was not the ocean -- it was not the seaside whose embrace was a constant comfort. It was strange, and different. It was fresh, and invigorating. He'd drift through the treeline, and upwards ; away, away from all that he'd known. A new adventurer, spurned by wanderlust, he'd taken his way along the coast. He'd been alone for what felt like years (but that was impossible, he was much too young to feel so old).

I suppose, to say he was alone was the wrong turn of phrase. He was independent. He traveled with none, but there lacked a lonesomeness. His heart had been taken, it's warmth stifled by the call of age and life. It was the same disillusionment most would experience, that the elders of their kind would recognize. His place was no longer among the familiar, toothsome grins of his parents, or the constant grip of his siblings. It was empty, far from fulfilling. And there, in this new, strange land came a sense of welcome. There, cresting a bluff and gazing into a valley, he found another sensation. Perhaps, it was his hope it was fate speaking to him. Or, perhaps instinct. This was not the coast, this was not the sweet murmur of ocean-kissed winds or the briny haze of dawn.

It was light, it's flirtation was a gainful prick and tingle. He felt the corners of his lips pull upwards in their canine smile. And he'd descend into the valley. His lungs, nostrils, filled with the many scents of others.

Like a young man, burned out and weary, he'd pause (with the weight of his baggage slipping free of his shoulders). The brumous, near gelid stare passed it's reach across the territory. He knew it to be claimed, and held by some group or clan of wolves. And it was not an immediate impulse, to join their ranks. But there was something to their home, their little valley that spoke to him. It whispered, murmured lovingly to the lost boy and he knew. A yip, a call barked out from him. His arrival announced, and he'd ready himself. He'd certainly passed through their borders, and there came some anxiety through this knowledge. But, he was confident. He was calm, collected. They would come for him, and with luck and by fate's good grace, they too would welcome him.

There'd been a pause in time; the air grew still and the hour gathering length. It was then, she'd come: grace, eloquence. And in some strange way, she reminded him of one not often thought of. Someone, who's recollection was often pushed, and forced from mind. Instead, he'd thought of Wisteria. In all her sweet, beguiling gentleness and grace. Wisteria seemed not unlike the Alpha who'd approached, answering his rather demanding request. Her simple rasp broke the quietness of the creek, and had him ensnared all the more. He'd fought the impulse to grin at her arrival, to greet her with the same warmth his mother would have -- had he'd ever known wisteria to be so quick to anger, to judge? She'd always worn a smile, always quick to apologize and make peace. His father, ah -- that was another story. His mother's son, he would relent. It was subtle, the draw of his lip as she introduced herself -- in so many words. "Lady o' the Creek, ey?" He murmured this, mulling over it carefully.

He'd never known many to be so eloquent with their words -- epithets weren't for them lesser beings. But to him, it suited the Alpha, Lady of the Creek.

Clearing his throat, Thorne collected himself: considering what she'd asked. It was fair enough of a question, but he was not sure what kind of answer he could provide. "I hadn't quite thought of that, to be honest." And it was rather certain, he hadn't. It was rather thoughtless of him, wasn't it? To come gallivanting across borders without invitation, and then announcing to the world he was there. A sheepish expression swept across his feathers and his gaze dropped from her.

"At first it was safe passage through your territory, but damn these tired of eyes of mine --" The thought itself faltered, and his words drifted: settling in the wintry tide of a breeze. Crisp. It lacked the briny kisses of his birth place; it held none of the odd warmth of a shoreline -- there it was again, the words crisp, invigorating. There came a rise of envy, as his eyes left her to take in this place she'd called home. It was quick then, his decision. So swift, so fickle his mind had been made. He was not seeking permission to travel through the creek. No, no, No. He sought to make roots. It was a new impulse. But one that he strangely liked. "Guessin' you can say I seek to join your ranks, that is, if you've got room for one more." A subtle gesture was made, his muzzle nudging in the direction of the Lady's creek, her home. Ever the astute traveler, he'd divined the place was newly taken. There'd been little in the ways of a witch's brew of scents. They were there: albeit, sparse in comparison to the one he'd been born into. This was not so much an empire, not yet. And, ever the opportunist like dear old dad, he'd knew a good thing when he saw it. This was as fresh of a start as he could find, and that suited him well. He'd flash the lady a grin, an eye pinching a wink.

"No," He was quick to offer this reply to her. And it was a fair examination of this rather unbecoming first impression. His brow quirked in thought, and as it came natural to him, impulse drove deeper sentiments from mind. "I don't expect anything from anyone." And this was quite true. It was one of many things he'd learned in watching his compulsive, and rather trigger-happy father -- a wolf, who perhaps would have been better of his parents to compare with the titian she-beast. She'd the look of his kind mother; but it was quite clear in her retort that she had the heart of the wolf he'd both feared and respected. He delayed little next, in speaking. They were offered evenly, without much flare. And this, you should know, was no easy task. "Expectations often breed discontentment." Heston expected great things, he hoped for even more. He often prayed for miracles, and was met with hardship.

His teeth gently clicked against each other as he'd reconsidered their exchange. He'd done little, after all, in impressing the leader of the Creek. Hell, he hadn't even learned the ways of their clan. For all he knew, they were a gang of pillaging outlaws -- but, even then, such compulsions were lingering in his veins. In either case, the decision had been affirmed as the seconds ticked by. He'd found a piece of his heart there, and he was willing to concede foolishness for realism. His father would have offered strength and skill; he would challenge, and press for some opulent display of his physical ability. Hawthorne L'amour was no gunslinger; he was far from a hard bitten warrior. But he had tact, he had a mindfulness for peace and diplomacy. "What I am willing to do though, is this:" A sharp inhale was taken into his lungs as his posture righted itself (though, not to appear dominant: only confident, and able). "I implore you to consider the wealth in accepting a tired traveler into your flock."

A tongue slipped against his lips, considering -- he'd no way of knowing all the things she'd wanted or needed to hear. But, Hawthorne was never a liar. He never withheld, and candid as ever offered the alpha a coffin nail: "Can I pledge what's left of my youth, and many years to you? Perhaps not." He was no soothsayer; he could not gaze into a reflection and catch premonitions in ripples. There was no way of knowing what would happen a year from that day, or even a month. But there was one thing he was certain of. "But I will earn my keep -- idleness is not a trait to be desired, after all."

The invasion into his personal space was not something to have been (insert snicker here) expected. His brows leaped upwards as she drew near -- a saccharine, and rather unusual sensation trembled inwardly. This was more psychological, rather than a wholesome, and physical shake. It was the literal collaring of the boy wonder, and he found himself enjoying this new found calling. She spoke, as she had -- coiling as snakes do, each shift of scale against scale offering a new whisper of insight. Family -- what everyone sought in some capacity or another. It was different, hearing these words come from the blessed lips of a viper. But he accepted it; it had been what he'd wanted in so many words.

His thoughts, however, lingered on her own prediction. His brows would knit together, and fought a smile. He'd never been one to guess what the future held, but her assumption was probably sound in thought. There would come a day where discontentment (and expectation) would find him, and throw him off his pedestal. He'd cared little to dwell on this train of thought, and abandoned his estimates for the time to come. Instead, he'd turn his face to hers, and once more present a reply. This one, perhaps the most important of all: "Hawthorne L'amour," There came a small pause, one added for dramatics.

Well, he was a wolf who lived in his head: and it was quite certain, as he corrected himself he thought of all that he'd left behind. "But, I prefer being called, Thorne." Just Thorne. It was something of a family tradition: children given names much to long, only to be shortened by whim.

Lethe: a name he'd found unusual. But, the unusual was greatly embraced. He was about to remark on this, but the conversation had changed direction.

The introductions had been entertained, and now came the meat and bones of this exchange. She was off, swiftly moving following her request. He complied, falling into step behind her. His strides made a shallow attempt to keep up. He'd remain behind, flanking. "I've the usual talents of our breed: providing, protecting, seeking." He'd offer the information nonchalantly. He had known no real talent in either skill, only the basis of what instinct offered. A thought would soon come to him, and it surprised him he hadn't considered it sooner. It'd never been a true task needed among the wolves he'd been raised with.

It was something left to the Alphas, the Betas. But, perhaps Lethe would have use for his more docile nature.

"But, I am a better peacekeeper than warmonger." the softer of three; the heart, the soulful one. It was not an easy decision, flying the coop. But the youngest of Heston's children had felt a need to explore the world, to find himself. There was never a chance for developing an independent identity. There was never the opportunity to be a singular identity. And there, standing before Lethe, he found that chance. None knew him as one of three; none there knew him as the son of any. He was himself: he was simply Thorne.

And there was something wholly empowering in that.