Ouroboros Spine The air is warm, my heart is cold

He was filled with something like sorrow, or grief, when he passed by the forest. The fringes smelled strongly of his old family and he was loath to do it, but Tryphon could not see any other way to get through the area. He did not have the desire to travel backwards towards the coast (and was afraid to do that on some level), but he couldn't climb the mountain without wasting more energy than he had. He either needed to get over his worries and allow fate to (potentially) throw him before his peers for judgement, or hastily make his way through the forest and not look back. Perhaps if he made it through without encountering one of the Neverwinter wolves, he would try his hand at hunting. A meal would warm his belly and more than likely raise his spirits.

Tryphon moved through the thicket as swiftly as he was able, mindful of the fallen leaves across the rock-strewn path, and the irregular terrain, and he became so focused on keeping his footing as he traipsed through the fringe of this territory that he did not notice the pale wolf a few leagues away from him — she seemed to be listening to something. It wasn't until he set his paws down on a particularly dry patch of leaves (crrrunnch) that Tryphon raised his head, almost like a meerkat, and looked around. He hoped nobody had heard that. The last thing he needed was a bad confrontation with Scimitar or Kaskara; they'd probably tear him to pieces for leaving them so long ago. Instead his eyes locked on a filigree'd creature he had never seen before. His gut twisted, and with a nervous swallow, he boofed in her direction — maybe to warn her, but more than that, he was curious if she was even real.