The Sentinels The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

A mottled wolf, carrying with him a soul that was twice the age of his body, ambled in uncertain steps towards the buffeting line of scents that marginalized the home of a healthy pack. Had the time of year been different— or maybe if Flaris preferred hisself to the company of others— he might've continued to float within the Wilds on his own, but as things were, he needed the support. And craved it, where he didn't need it. The forest, cool and bathed by the white glow of a low-bearing moon, had drawn him in at a distance, and as this was the first pack he had come across since departing Bergamont, he couldn't imagine that this was anything other than Fate.

Still, he was cautious. The gentleman in him bade him to call for an audience, but if the pack had turned in for the night, he was not keen on disturbing them. Instead of running the risk, Flaris decided to hang back and wait for a passing patrol, or until a more decent hour had arrived. He was hungry but not starved, nor was he desperate for shelter, so it was easy enough for him to find a spot about twenty yards from the border, where he could curl up in wait for as long as it took.