Firefly Glen watch the flames burn auburn on the mountainside

@Mara Susi
note: I got permission from Methuselah's player to find him dead

 

The golden king had not tracked the days since his fall; amidst his pain, his loneliness, he could not bring his awareness outside of himself. He was lost. Cast from his rightful place in spirit and in body, sent spiraling through the darkness of uncertainty. He had no home to which he could return, no lover to pour his worries to, no brother for him to lean on. Jerrik was alone.
He had scrambled blindly, brokenly from his would-be tomb, and with his first gasping breaths of frigid air he had sobbed. The scents of his beloved companions were nowhere near, and he was badly injured. But that-- that was days ago. Maybe more than days. He couldn't quite remember. In fact, he found he couldn't remember many things... what was his love's name? His brother's name? His home? Jerrik knew he missed these things terribly, but could not recall them; this was the most painful of all the feelings.
The golden king was not roused from his clouded state until he found the first sign. Fur in the snow, black as night and carrying an achingly familiar scent. He ran. Jerrik followed the trail recklessly, without regard for his surroundings or his present state. Heart racing, eyes alight, he prepared the things he would say-- he would never, ever let the other out of his sight again. Though his brain still ached when he tried to remember more than simple things about the wolf who possessed this scent, he did know that he knew him-- and he loved him. He was so caught up in these thoughts, mindlessly following the scent trail, that a startled yelp escaped him when his paws hit something in the snow. It was stiff, but... strangely textured.
Jerrik put his nose down to the lump under the snow, then pulled away sharply, eyes suddenly wide and glazed. No, no, no no, no. That smell. He knew that smell.
No. It came out half-whispered, and then he was working at the snow with his paws, clearing it away. Dark fur showed through the white, and he stopped. He didn't need to keep digging to know-- the scent, the dark fur. It was enough.
The golden king stumbled a few paces backwards, then collapsed with a half-gasping wail. The name came to him now, effortlessly. Methuselah was dead.