Stone Circle the blood on my hands scares me to death

Compared to most of the wolves who resided in the hollow, Laurel was not openly welcoming of his presence. She seemed tense, though if you asked him for his best guess as to why he would simply draw a blank. Maybe it was just who she was, reclusive. After all, she had lived here a while right? Yet he never really saw her around, nor spoke with her until now. Clay had been the same in many ways, quiet, tense, angry... He had run off as a pup to be alone almost daily until one day he just...never came back.

West missed as the other shook her head, too lost in his own thoughts to really question the action. What she said though, brought him back. To be with her sister. Her sister...? Laurel quickly continued in an attempt to hide whatever feelings she clung too, though West was all too familiar, haunted by the same ghosts. His eyes roamed back to the pillars. Clay wasn't the only one buried here, generations laid beneath the dirt like his aunt and grandmother. Maybe her sister. I get it...I came to be with my brother. His usual light tone felt heavy now, burdened, distraught...

Who was your sister? Few had died since the woodland boy's birth, chances were he did not know her at some point, but maybe he knew of her. Most of the stones had been named after someone, each a story he knew well since he was young thanks to Newt and his mother. The stones were supposed to bring comfort, a place for mourning and guidance, but most of all strength. West's gaze fell back to the herds, avoiding the other's eyes. If she ended up crying he didn't want to see it, for privacy sure, but more so for what it might draw out of himself. Almost daily he thought of the scene he had made at the river. It was embarrassing, even if some comfort came out of it, but there was no way he was repeating that.