Blackfoot Forest when night fell she placed hand upon breast; prayed for weeping days of rain

His ears cupped forward, eagerly drinking in her words. He differed from other fanatics in that he'd not only hear out what others would say of their religion but store it away in his mind for later perusal, collecting each and every story. Just because he believed one thing didn't mean others were necessarily wrong--there were different ways of telling the same story.

Perhaps if he had grown up inside the tribe, it would be different. As it was, Phocion had been a worldly wolf before his arrival there, and worldly he would remain.

"Iliana is the sun," Phocion explained, "and Fengari the moon. Evil and good, manifested in the sky." His blue eyes narrowed as he stared up once more, the sunbeams--so comforting to some--feeling razor sharp on his snowy pelt. "Beneath-Night's Breath," he repeated, his voice a murmur. He brought his gaze down to Poet, smiling softly. "I do believe we have more in common than we might realize."