Lake Rodney the hero of our own story

Returning home with much on her mind, her eyes sought namely the unfamiliar. Orange eyes, black furs—she would take care of that threat promptly, were she able to. It would not do to be distracted, and so she focused on that task while not allowing herself to dwell on recent events. Life had other plans, of course; Hydra detected a familiar scent, and followed it with plenty of forethought. 

She had wanted to talk to Arcturus, and she had imagined the direct route to him might be Wraen given the fact that they had both elected to leave the Redhawks in her own name, together. But when she came across the haggardly woman, her brother was nowhere to be seen. The she-wolf looked far from herself, but that did nothing to stir any feelings of sympathy within the matriarch. The outside now looked to match the inside. Weak, decrepit, and the way she lay down against the bank, spineless. 

If only the wolf with orange eyes could be near. What a happy little accident that might be.

More to the womans misfortune, Wraen lay before a black wolf with blue eyes. For her, that could be much, much worse. 

Arcturus caring for her—and Hydra's own caring for Arcturus—was all that spared Wraen from everything Hydra played out within her own mind. None of this revealed from her cold gaze, disinterest apparent. Still, Hydra found she had nothing to say to the woman who Hydra now knew lived and breathed for her. A shame she would likely die for that, someday—when Arcturus too realized the true, awful nature of the woman he had selected to keep company with. 

But today was not that day, Hydra did not think—not unless the tree alongside her decided to fall and bury her beneath its weight. 

A pity that it likely wouldn't. 

Wraen, she drawled, is Arcturus near? she asked, eyes shifting from her to their surroundings.