Golden Glade to forge a path into the marrow of the spirit

Breccan had followed along with the group as they made the official transition to their new territory. It didn't much matter to him; he had only spent a few days at the plateau, and had hardly even given it a cursory examination. What was another move, when he had already been uprooted twice before in less than a year of life? He felt like he had little control over what was happening to him, and he liked it less and less with each passing day.

The only consolation was that he found he wasn't the only youth upset with the circumstances. There seemed to be a general feeling of unsettlement among the younger wolves of the bunch; he knew that Deshyr shared his sentiments, and even Sionnach had been grumpier than usual as of late. When he took the time to glance at the faces of Raven and Quixote's kids, he noted that at least one of them looked displeased. It was validating, in a way, although it didn't do much to improve his mood overall.

When they arrived, he listened without expression as Raven welcomed them to their new home. She spoke of turning over a new leaf, and Breccan wondered why that leaf had been turned at all, when there had been nothing wrong with the old one. His gaze roved over the shaded treescape; he felt a tug at his heartstrings as it reminded him of the hollow. He only partially listened as a list of duties was provided, and one of the Redhawks volunteered to act as a messenger. In the background, Wisteria slipped quietly away, and Breccan watched her go. He had half a mind to follow her -- not to pursue her, but to escape the crowd.

He stayed, though, standing stoically near his family, looking the part of a Frosthawk while feeling anything but on the inside.