Blackfeather Woods I just... don't want them to change me

The air was growing colder. He knows what it meant — winter — but that didn't mean it was frightening in a way. He had been born in winter, during the solstice when the day was its shortest, but it wasn't familiar to him. He marvelled at each little change he saw in the world around him. The world was dying. And it was beautiful.

So enraptured was he in the ebbing and swelling of the world's magicks that he all but ignored the political drama occurring. His family, despite his differences and disagreements with him, was his family. He had to protect them, sure, but he did not know how. He did not have the magic to save either of his uncle's minds, or cleanse his mother's womb, or bring wolves to their doorstep. He didn't even have the mundane abilities to do that either.

He isn't the only one caught up in the troubles of the pack, it seemed. He can see the movement of something dark up ahead, and as he grows close, he recognizes the scent of the Dark Master. Astrid, He rumbles, dipping his head to her.