Slowly but surely, he was getting used to life in his brother's new pack. At any rate, it was better than the tribe breathing down his neck with every step he took. It was a lot more relaxed here, no rituals to speak of, just a bunch of wolves from different places seeking shelter, doing the best they could with the talents they had to keep the place afloat. It was refreshing, really. Not having to deal with any religious bullshit.

Zamael took to wandering around, trying to make himself useful. Some hunting here, some herb-gathering there. On the coast, he'd been adept at predicting the weather, but it seemed like there was no use for that here, at least not in the early summer. None of his talents really carried over. But he felt as though Alarian could forgive him for that, at least.

Today, he thought he'd give patrolling a try, when he spotted what looked like a fuckin' dog walking the borders, head held high. As he drew closer, he noticed she smelled of milk--must be the new mother, but why the hell wasn't she in the den? Weren't her kids just born, or something? Brows raised, Zamael padded toward her, falling into step without really asking.

"You look excited," he remarked wryly, looking over at her beaming face. "Been a while since you got out?"

"No doubt," Zamael responded, in easy tones. He shook his head at her first question, then nodded at her second--all the while, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. . .like, duh? He was silent for a moment, padding along, before opening his mouth to speak again. "I'm Zamael," he said. "Alarian's brother. I just got here, oh, a few days ago?"

Patrolling had a nice, relaxing beat about it that always lulled him into a trance. It quieted his ever-moving mind, even when there was someone beside him to talk to. When he'd first arrived at Coleridge, he'd taken all the patrols he could, trying to keep his thoughts away from all the ugliness inside. Now, as he agonized over when to tell his siblings about the tribe's orders, he found that same comfort in walking these borders.

"Pleasure," he responded shortly, with a nod in return. He let her question simmer for a moment before answering, momentarily lost in his own murky thoughts before manners dragged him back into the open again. "Uh, I guess. I'm not really a patrol person, but it's something to do, and I can look at scenery while I do it, sooo. . ." He trailed off, shrugging.

His dark nose lowered as he stopped suddenly, pressing against a clump of pale yellow against the green. "Buttercup," he muttered, as if to himself. He thought of pulling it from the ground, then shook his head, straightening and continuing to walk. "Nah. There's no real use for it. It's just pretty." Zamael laughed, the sound actually quite genuine--for once--looking back over at Queenie. "Sorry. I always get distracted by color."

He didn't miss her snort, and he cast her a dark look, but said nothing, remaining silent as she spoke next. Zamael shrugged in answer to her question, shaking his head. He didn't really have an opinion on the borders, honestly. The place seemed secure, and there were always plenty of wolves padding around. Besides Queenie, he'd seen a few others out here, looking out for them.

"Not really, no," he responded, voice casual as if he were discussing the latest weather. "Alarian--he knows what he's doing. He may look small, but he's a hell of a fighter. And there are always a lot of others out here patrolling," he added, voicing his thoughts, "including you. I think we're fine."

He'd only known Queenie for all of five minutes, but he already had a feeling she'd try to argue with him about it. He was curious as to why a dog--or a wolf that looked uncannily like a dog--had such strong opinions on borders. Too used to fences, he supposed.