The Tangle Where the sun isn't only sinking fast

Ephraim didn't know where he was going when he crossed out of Drageda's claim, only that he had to get away. So with the setting sun painting his withers gold, he slunk out of the territory with a furtive side-to-side shoulder check. He wanted for company to take the edge off his pain, but not that of his grieving fellows. He knew their pain was worth more than his, which made him guilty, and the guilt made him resentful. He was as likely to lash out as to have a conversation with anyone he came upon; better to do that to a stranger than a comrade.

The Tangle hadn't seen much activity from Drageda in a while, a fact for which Ephraim was grateful as he weaved through the knotted brambles and roots. Blixen had been right—having come here a few times now, he was more used to the terrain and it was easier to traverse. He was certain he could escape into here and grieve quietly without one of his packmates finding him. That said, he couldn't claim to be familiar with it, as evidenced by his finding himself disoriented exactly half an hour after entering the place.