The Bracken Woods Weep for yourself, my man

Internally, it was a constant battle of should I stay? and should I leave? Arrluk, as unaccustomed as he was to speaking with those beyond his family, was not necessarily rude in nature, which made it easy to stay and converse; a small voice continued to nag at him from the recesses of his mind, insisting he had something to do and could not stick around, but it was notably weak and unable to truly influence him. Still, he considered where the conversation might even go, with neither lost nor in need of the other—but then he heard the word pack and his ears perked whilst his posture straightened. Although it was not his primary reason for having left the north, he did intend to seek out his great uncle at some point or another, whose home he’d been told was south—had he travelled southwards far enough to have been deposited just beyond the elder Inuk’s home? It was a possibility worth considering.

“What is the name of your pack?” he asked. Though Arrluk could not recall what name he’d been given—had he even been given one?—he hoped to hear something that might click in his head; a name once whispered from wolf to wolf in his homeland, some fragment of the northern tongue, anything.