In good time the group reached the forest, and it was here they chose to rest once more. While the Nereides were creatures of the sea - and he too, in part, connected to it as well - Atlas felt quite at ease beneath the boughs. It was a reminder of his origins. Even though they were difficult to recall, aspects of the forest were bringing vague memories back to him.
The scent of the trees, for one. A lack of salt in the air. The trembling leaves, with hues that were just beginning to shift.
He inhaled a deliberately slow breath, and set out: the women would be hungry, and while they often detested dining on foreign meat, he would have to find something to satiate their hunger. It was his duty, and that outshone any sentimentality that Atlas may have felt.
But he was curious of this forest. There were not very many wolfish smells, at least nothing fresh enough to hint at a collective within the shadows. If he was the one in control of their travels - but no, Atlas refused to let that thought fester beyond the barest beginnings of fantasy. Because I am not in control.
And really, he was fine with that.