Lost Creek Hollow the older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune

It had been years since Riordan had last visited this place; he thought of this as he worked his way along the giant's stairway — it petered out as he traveled the cuesta, which had some ridges too but none as sheer nor as harrowing as the hillside to the east. The last time he had come this far west had been his first excursion away from Toraigh. He had been a fool of a boy at the time, but -- he thought of Eshe, of Harlyn and Mordecai, and felt a twist in his gut. They hadn't been that close. He had been so keen to stick with them, to learn of a world outside of his own kin, but in the end Riordan had slipped away.

As he followed some vaguely-familiar paths, he came to the hollow. Or rather, one of the winding trails leading towards it. As his burly figure gave pause to the forest, his blunt head dipped towards the soil, sniffing, investigating. He wondered how well the pack had fared and thought that it would've done well - perhaps it was still here, perhps he could apologize to them and find Eshe. But it had been years, and things changed so quickly during the lifespan of any wolf.

Still, he was surprised to find some strong markings on some of the trees; their bark was scored near the earth, and there were gouges in the dirt from someone kicking their claws through the soil. There was no mistaking the scents — there was a pack here, and Riordan felt the electric thrill of surprise mingling with a little hope, a little nostalgia. He lifted his head and called for Mordecai — assuming he was still the master here — and as his voice died out in the air, Riordan settled back on his haunches to wait.

Little did he know.