Hideaway Strath he walks the field at night

As striking and undaunted as the wild stranger appeared -- as terribly deep as his eyes were; as experienced as he looked -- he betrayed his age through his insistence. She realized then that this godly figure was just like everyone else: a product of his upbringing; a lost child chasing things that could not be changed. He looked powerful enough to take on the task, though this would only serve to make him stubborn and restless, and in the end of things he would be unfulfilled.

Unless he found another soul, or a heart-stirring stretch of land, that stole his spirit and cleansed it of everything that had come before it.

Omen, with her ghost-of-a-smile, seeming wistful or teasing, wasn't at all actually glad to whisper-tell him that: "that's what all the lucky ones say." She could have guessed that this was all about his mother -- for who else could leave such lasting scars on a boy? The sable she-wolf nodded mutely, staring at the ground at his feet for a long moment before flitting her oppressive eyes to him dolefully. "Then she was beautiful," she told him, louder this time, and more firm. "Though it's rather hard to imagine a wolf like you," the sibyl admitted further, glancing away as she refused to acknowledge how he received the hooded compliment, if at all.