Arrow Lake Birds don't fly, they soar

deciding that an excursion might clear his head, mahler set out at dawn the following day, intending to make for diaspora's summer claim.
some fanciful part of him swiftly dying thought that he and his wolves might one day be able to return here, in the rich warm of spring, but when he came upon the ruined land with its felled boulders and cracked earth, mahler surrendered the dream.
pensively he strode through the territory, irked by the reek of strangers. the general still thought of this as diasporan land, fair or otherwise; his lavender eyes prowled sharply across the sundered scape, and his large paws carried him across the snow in the vague direction of the former whelping shelters.