Emberwood oh father, tell me, do we get what we deserve?

There was disturbance in the shadow wolves. Alasdair did not know why—he did not care to find out. What he did know, though, was that even when these wolves were not distracted, he had not been held there against his will.

Alasdair had encroached on a cache in the morning hours—eating his fill until he could handle no more. Licking clean the blood and meat from his lips, piercing green eyes had hardened once more to the horizon, and before night had fallen, the boy had found himself from their scents and hearth and down the mountain to the comfort of a forest.

It did not remind him of home.

Now, as weeks passed, he could scarcely remember the long fields he had been born to.

But there was something comforting about it, and without preamble, the youth made his way to the denser woods, ignoring the already grumble of his stomach before he found a small stream—taking a moment to vanquish his thirst as he considered his next point of action.

Ameline intended to pay Swiftcurrent a visit, but by the time she reached the borders, she found herself in a groove- travel had always suited her well, and she had a renewed peace of mind now that she had enough members to mind the borders in her absence. So she swept past the pack's borders, and roved further North, into a place she realized must be appealing to the medic, Arlette; all manner of shrubs and plants, brown or leafless in the winter, grew in abundance. It made her wonder why the gardener had an interest in scouting the Valley for herbs, but perhaps there were plants that grew in one terrain, and not in another. 

To her knowledge, the woodland was not claimed hunting grounds, and while it was pack-adjacent, she saw no harm in pursing the trail of a flock of partridges that had left behind little feathers, and a scattering of tracks. The birds, it seemed, caught wind of her before she could get close- and took to the limbs of a spruce. What she found ambling along in their wake, though, was just as interesting. 

A porcupine. 

Not necessarily a target worth the work, but nevertheless a source of entertainment. A creature that could do little more than grind its teeth, puff up its quills and amble along was a plaything for a spirited creature. Ameline circled it, chuckling as it bared its frighteningly orange teeth, and gritted them together. Piggy piggy porky pig, She teased as she circled the creature. It continued on its way, toward one tree and then toward another, when the agile wolf blocked its path. She toyed with the creature, goading it and taunting it until she lost interest. 

She should visit Swiftcurrent before night fell, and then head back to the valley. 

She made her way toward a stream, guessing it was the same body of water that the pack made its home around, surprised to find a young-looking fellow (he couldn't be any older than this year's batch of children) at the banks. She chuffed a greeting, and scouted the area to see if he might be alone.

The gloom of nightfall was fast approaching. Winter’s Wake moved at a prowl to find the waking scents of those crepuscular creatures who would soon come out to feed and mingle. Instead, he found the scent of his own kind, and followed it to discover a wolverine of a she-wolf and a sunstorm pup opposite her. Neither of them seemed particularly familiar with the other.

Was this the nephew Etienne searched for? The boy was not golden, precisely, but he had blond markings.

The rogue gave a quiet boof to attract their attention, and he signaled his neutrality with a tall wave of his tail and by keeping his distance. Is your name Shark, by any chance? he directed towards the boy. The wolves of Swiftcurrent Creek are looking for a young boy by that name.

Alasdair paused as the footfall of another approached—his entire form stiffening, though he did not lift his head yet. Partially—though the youth was no longer this naive—he hoped if he chose to ignore whoever it was, they would simply drift away.

But the ghouls of the world did not work that way—and so the masked face of the boy lifted, green eyes shrewdly placed upon the woman before the lingering form and the crooning bark of another also caught his attention.

His tongue slid across his lips—form still stiff—idly considering his chances of escape in this moment. Would they drag him back to the ridge wolves who had taken him?

Was he even important enough to be looked for by the ridge wolves?

Shark. Swiftcurrent Creek.

Someone was looking for their lost boy.

His heart stuttered in his chest. Someone’s family wanted their boy back. Had his even tried?

“No,” was all he offered—and cautiously, he lowered his mouth once more to the water, drinking slowly—green eyes never wavering from keeping both within view.

The boy was on edge. Not terribly trusting of strangers she guessed- which was for the best, even though she’d tried to communicate with her posture that she bore no ill will. When another wolf appeared, she wondered momentarily if he knew the youngster- but the boy’s nervousness made it clear that he wasn’t familiar, or very comfortable, with the man either.

She perked her ears as she drank from the water, but lifted her ears to hear Unfortunate news from Swiftcurrent. 

She wondered for a moment if the boy was lying. He looked like a flight risk. 

I’m from Bearclaw. I can thpread the word with my packmateth… She offered. You from Thwiftcurrent? she asked, though if she had to make an educated guess, she’d assume he wasn’t…Otherwise, he might have known whether this was the missing boy.