The dark bear made his way into the wilds like a predator on the prowl. His dark eyes searched his surroundings with a keen interest before he pressed on. Stars had guided him, a radiant path against the deepest navy of backdrops, and he found that their company was welcome on such nights. The frigid wind still blew across the stretches of flat earth. He made way for the trees and tucked his head low to keep his ears safe from the bite of the frosty air. Bronte could scent other wolves. The shadowy figure inhaled deeply, savoring their rich scent before he drew his skull and chuffed into the darkness for any who might have found comfort in the seclusion of the wood as well.
 
The swarthy DeMonte did not pause for very long before he delved further into the maple trees. The sounds of small prey animals echoed from the darkest corners of the earth. They crashed into him and turned his ears atop his crown so that he would not be taken unawares. Painted with the night, Bronte remained well hidden. He did not try to conceal himself from others who would happen his way.

Little did he know that somewhere in the wood, there was a dark-coated female who shared his sentiments on the difficulties of leaving his home. Bronte was grateful; he had Coelho at his side, and while she was trying in her own right, he felt more at peace with the presence of familiarity. It had been a few miles since he had seen the sharp gold of her gaze and he wondered if it would be much longer before he saw her beelining it across the forest floor.
 
Turning his skull, Bronte caught wind of an unfamiliar scent. He drew his ears forward and frowned thoughtfully at the freshness of it. From what he could gather, the aroma belonged only to one, but he wasn’t fond of putting himself in riskier situations than he could handle. The DeMonte scanned his surroundings for an approaching figure but saw only the darkness that cased the forest. There was a small response to his calling, but Bronte did not see the large grey-cloaked male, or even the dark woman who melded with the background. 

A young voice sounded in the air. Bronte turned sharply to face the granite-colored male with some mild interest. One ear swiveled to meet the tail ends of the inquiry that was presented. A small smirk curled his dark lip and the DeMonte shook his head in response. “Not by me,” his voice was a deep and husky timbre that sounded far older than what matched his true age. The swarthy thing canted his head and then turned his gaze on the woman who watched them. If it was her who sought to lay claim on the forest, she would need to work harder at it. There were no scent markings where Bronte had entered, and he wasn’t about to apologize for her poor mistake - if that was what it was. 

The grey male introduced himself as Rannoch; the name suited him well enough, leaving Bronte little room for questioning it. When the male gestured toward the mountain that he had claimed, the swarthy young DeMonte turned his attention toward it with raised brows and a small nod of his skull. With the same sardonic expression, the shadow turned back to face his companion and shrugged lightly.
 
“Young for an Alpha,” he remarked with a small, twisting smirk of his lips. “I’m Bronte Atticus DeMonte.” The introduction came with a slight nod of his head. The dark wanderer had heard the name Frostfur before – it was one that had a fond light shone on it within his family. He was even certain that he’d met a few along the way, but Bronte wasn’t eager to bring up the chance for shared and tender moments with a young stranger. He was eager to know what Rannoch was made of.

The young bear received a polite echoing of his moniker and then a compliment from the other male. From the dark female in the background, there was nothing but vibrant watchful eyes. Bronte cast her a glance; the red wine of his gaze lingered on her features for far too long before he returned it to Rannoch and the winter colors within his coat. Then, the other male cast a questioning glance and made mention that Bronte didn’t smell much like the nearby territories. The dark DeMonte nodded his head softly, the same smirk still lingering on his dark muzzle. The umber color of his eyes seemed to flicker between Rannoch and the quiet female before he answered, but he offered the information with only a modicum of concern.
 
“I’m not,” his voice was graveled in his response, but he shrugged his shoulders to indicate the lack of importance. The dark female didn’t follow up with a question, or a name, so Bronte drew his tongue across the hairs of his muzzle and sniggered softly. “I’ve been a wayfarer for a year now. Going where the trail leads.” His youth allowed for his pride to swell at having been worldly before most his age. Bronte looked to Rannoch expectantly; surely the other man was a traveler himself.

The question answered the thought that had wandered through his mind. Bronte imagined that Rannoch had only lived his life in the wilds up until that point. The dark young bear allowed a flicker of a smile to pass along his muzzle before he shrugged his shoulders and narrowed his brows some. “Nice enough; you sleep where you please, hunt in any land that isn’t claimed. It’s got perks, but the same could be said for pack life.” It all depended on who was asked, but Bronte believed that he could see a benefit to both lives. The swarthy young man had known the strength it took to devote a life to the growth and structure of a wolf pack; he knew that it did not always succeed, but when it did, it was outstanding. It was still impressive that Rannoch had founded his own at such a young age.

Rannoch seemed polite enough about their differing ways of life. Bronte wasn’t too concerned if he felt strongly about either side, only that he approached with an open mind. It was relieving to cross one so young who knew how to craft a respectable figure for themselves. After all, they were all just clay waiting to be shaped into something magnificent by the hands of time and circumstance. The dark DeMonte nodded his head softly in agreement and then frowned at the question that had been posed. Rannoch wanted to know if he planned to travel for the rest of his life. Ah, it was an ideal way of living. At least, Bronte believed that it was the best way to truly grow, but he knew that the young man was probably in search of members.
 
“If the right offer came along, I think I could settle,” he answered with a half smirk that danced along the right side of his dark face. Bronte thought then of Coelho and if she would stay with him or move on to more exciting ventures.

The offer fell, and Bronte drew his ears forward so that he might catch all of what Rannoch was saying to him in regard to the Sunspire pack. The smile did not waver from his features, but he let the pitch linger without a response for a few moments. He would want for Coelho to be with him, if she would settle down long enough to place herself in the ranks of a pack. It was a chance for a fresh start and a new life that he could craft for himself. If it turned on its head, he could always pack his things and move out. Impulsively, the DeMonte nodded his head before providing a verbal confirmation in the form of a rumbling, “alright. Lead the way.”