Moonspear you can only remember what you want to forget

The children of the mountain were young, and there were many bodies which tended to them. It seemed strange to Tryphon to be near to them, even if they were the reason for his acceptance. Although he had agreed to tutor the children and to protect them, they had more than sufficient coverage on both fronts; coupled with this, they were still so very, very young. There was no reason for himself (a complete stranger) to even attempt caring for them at this point. So he was left to wait, to watch, to learn. It had only been a few days but Tryphon had done his work - he'd found the territory limits, scoured patches just beyond, discovered caches and potential threats alike, then returned to the heart of the territory.

He never strayed for long from the mountain. Something about the mountain called to him deep down, deeper even than his bones. The boy never experienced any altitude sickness as he fought to climb to the highest reaches; in fact, he found the process of the hike to be most enjoyable, even thrilling. He was huffing and puffing all the same when he finally chose to rest from his exuberant roaming.

It was here that he detected the scent of sadness - it was a wet smell, like the rain. Salty like the sea, too. Faint, but noticeable enough - as if someone had been crying and had sundered the soil into mud with their weeping. Or maybe he was being a tad hyperbolic - but he noticed something, and took to finding the reason for that oddness in the air. Upon discovering a wolf-shape he slowed, then stopped, and quietly watched. The stranger seemed distracted but not sad; there was a perfume in the air like springtime which was curious - and alluring - but he didn't speak, only observed from afar.