Wapun Meadow grind to a halt

True to his nature, Riley was hardly in the riverpack a week before his feet got to wandering. What had first started as a stroll around the perimeters gradually became a mindless journey, as his feet found old trails at once immediate and intimate.

Trails that lead him back to Easthollow.

To home.

To Laurel.

He stopped at the edge of a meadow he recognized as one of the last stops before Easthollow. A scent lingered, pervasive and suggestive of a frequent wolven audience. Riley stepped warily.

He dared not come too close to the hollow, and swore to himself when he got to the fanglike ridge of Bearclaw he would turn back — yet before his feet found that trail, he saw shapes stirring in the autumn grass.

Normally Riley would walk by, avoiding these wolves. He had every mind to do so, when the wind bore a scent to him as familiar as the paths beneath his feet.

Laurel.

The yearling approached slowly, flat gaze wary — yet what chilled him more than seeing his mother was the presence of his aunt; only young, and short-furred. A basal instinct shivered in him, and his gaze climbed to Merrick — another wolf he much preferred he wished he did not recognize.

Why were they here?