Stone Circle stand next to the spire of my crumbling

His attention, diverted to the mouth of the den, his ears swiveling to the side as he swears he hears the snap of a twig underfoot — the traffic around their den has been increased and he grows more agitated by the day with the unwelcome interference of the Easthollow wolves ( how is he meant to make her better when they keep shoving their presences down her throat?! ) — but no one appears. Which is likely a good thing, he thinks as his head swings around to look at Noma as she declares that she’s not hungry. For a moment, he thinks she’s back to refusing what he gives her and a swell of anger rises in him. In a wash of exhaustion he wonders if it would not be better to simply free her. To relinquish her title as his thrall: he has fought and provided and risked to no avail. It feels like every good step forward they take something occurs to place them back at step one again. He’s tired of being at square one, tired of being watched. He needs to leave this place before he does something …regrettable. He almost argues with her, the air works it’s way up his windpipes from his lungs but his teeth click together as his muzzle snaps shut. Arguing would only draw attention and he already has more attention than he has made clear that he wants. Easthollow’s meddling was like poking a hibernating bear and eventually Wardruna was going to snap; and Noma was wearing him down. He thought things were good and then everything shifts so wholly to prove him wrong and the northerner does not know what to do. “Fine.” He draws in a deep breath and lets it out. “Fine.” He reiterates and moves to lay down but away from the mouth of the den so she could eat if she did have the urge of hunger. “I am tired.” He announces grumpily, rests his head upon his paws and closes his eyes; unfortunately it wasn't a tired that sleep could cure.

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