Deepwood Weald to wield old partisans in hands as old

The wind had changed and he'd known upon smelling the first hints of autumn that he was being called elsewhere, and so he had departed the ancestral home of his people and delved in to the unknown. It wasn't hard for him to be alone in those first few days. Ailithir knew he was never truly alone; but all the same, it felt strange not to have the accompaniment of his kin. To hear their voices on the wind, or their laughter, or to witness their achievements - their failings. As different as he felt upon leaving Toraigh, Ailithir could not ignore the libration that followed with it too - a sense of purpose almost, as if he had been called forth by some force unseen, and it felt only good.

That said, he did not allow himself to become pompous in his thinking nor prideful in his mannerisms; he kept to the old ways, as his forefathers taught. He gave offerings to every river that he found. He asked permission from the forest before he crossed its boundaries or took from its bounty. And when he saw the sun cresting the edge of the world, Ailithir made peace with it, spilled blood for it, and would go to sleep with an exposed offering nearby - a rabbit carcass, a few dead mice, something small that could have made the difference for himself but would, in the end, appease the sidhe all the more.

It was wise to keep the court in good spirits, after all. Not to bring good tidings upon himself (for that was both presumptuous and foolhardy thinking), but rather, to prevent ill-tidings. So far, everything that had been shown to Ailithir had been correct: the meals would be gone come daybreak, not even a speck of blood to be found upon the soil. His path remained clear. So it was easy for him to navigate the seemingly endless weald as he came upon it.

A part of him was enamored by the intricate structures of the trees. Some stood firmly where they'd planted, not a single piece out of place. Others seemed to wind back upon themselves - perhaps pulled by wind in their awakening - and still others were so netted to their neighbours it was hard to tell one tree from another. Ailithir crept along carefully but it was clear by his constant pauses that he was curious. The creature was more curious of the forest itself than anything that dwelled within it, oddly enough. He hadn't eaten in many days - savoring the taste of blood from his rituals, but nothing more - and yet he did not seek to feed, but to investigate each avenue that opened to him within the wood.

It was obvious that he would mistake the musky smell of a wolf for something else, then. A fox perhaps - a badger, wolverine, ermine - because he did not expect to find anything he truly desired within the forest. The wolf bypassed Sif's hiding spot on more than one occasion, but his path wound back and forth through the trees - as if something was leading him, luring him, playing with him - and yet he did not think to seek her out. The wolf paused in his survey once more, this time almost directly next to Sif, and was panting loudly, watching the shadows shift with the wind, and remained oblivious.