Emberflame Ridge No one can say what we get to be.

The squirrel stared down at its stalker and Durnehviir stared right back, silently willing it to climb from the safety of its perch to forage among the forest floor. It was not stupid enough to abandon the canopy, however, and the she-wolf knew she would not be making a meal of it anytime soon. With a defeated huff of breath, she dipped her head and pressed onward through the trees with her nose to the ground in search of easier prey.

She picked up on the scent of a pack-mate, however, and paused in her tracks to turn her head and peer through the foliage over a russet shoulder. The aroma belonged to Samothes' dark-furred sister, she knew, although regretfully had not spent much time with the wolfess. They'd both kept mostly to themselves as of late, it seemed, tending to their own seperate needs as they adjusted to the very different changes they'd come to experience. Durnehviir didn't know how long Samaantine had been a loner, and she knew how difficult it could be to resume life where one had to think of a group collectively, rather than their own survival.

A delicate smile curved upward on the dragoness' pale muzzle when her comrade stepped into view, and she welcomed the Messeda girl to her with a friendly wag of her feathered tail and a warm "hello." She was so unlike her brother, Durnehviir mused. Where Samothes was light-pelted and silver-tongued, Samaantine was as obsidian as they came and clearly preferred her own company. She wondered of her own brothers then, and how greatly she had differed from them. Trajan was entirely greyscale, she recalled; Julius as white as untouched snow, peppered with silver; and the sunrise always reminded her of Relonikiv's golden hues. She hoped they were happy, wherever they'd wound up, and thought of her as fondly as she did of them.