silkie takes in a deep breath as he makes his way on stealthy paws — well practiced from the months spent idly hunting — to the borders of drageda in the still and dark of a near moonless night, frost settling over the plants. his breath leaves his lips in tendrils of steam that writhe for a few seconds, rising above his face before they dissipate in the cold night air. if there is hesitance, if there is trepidation it is only because he does not want his mom to worry. thoughts of wildfire fretting over him are almost enough to stop him. he does not want to break her heart when it's possibly already so full of ache and worry. silkie's a good boy.

or he was a good boy.

he cannot sit idle waiting for noma to return, waiting for bat to return, or for someone to find her. he casts a look over his shoulder, silently willing the wolves of drageda, his family to know that he'll be back. but he needs answers. he needs to search on his own, to at the very least say that he tried. trying was better than letting it all to the adults. he's almost six months old. practically an adult, he thinks to assures himself, to assuage the guilt rising in his chest and further into his throat.

quickly, before anyone realizes he's missing from hougeda, or before anyone on patrol can intercept him he steps outside of drageda's borders and heads east into the tangle, knowing that it'll be some time and he'll have to put some serious distance between drageda and himself before he can stop.