Shadowwyn Moor For something to believe in

He'd set out to that particular area, crossing the mountains, now that he was better on his feet again. Cicero still looked like a ghost of a wolf — he was thin, his ribs showing, his thin fur doing little to hide the impact the famine had had on him. But he was beginning to get more energy, particularly now that he no longer had to spare food out of his mouth to feed Malice and her pups — not that he had blamed them; it was his choice — and now that the herds were returning to the valleys.

There was something melancholic about the place he was in, he realised as he noted a fallen tree and a gust of wind blew through his thin fur, making it dance slightly. Mismatched eyes lifted to see there was someone else there, her head lifted to the sky as though she was contemplating something, or perhaps searching for a scent. "It is often great wolves who are of nature prone to melancholy," he shared, although he realised only after words left his lips that she might not have even been feeling as melancholic as he, not as touched by the scenery and the breezy summer weather as he felt.