Raven's Watch You slept on a feather bed, I slept on the floor.

Their fire burned bright, a blaze that Stjornuati felt turn in his direction almost immediately; something he should have expected, even in the weeks-old wake of Solpallur's squabble with the woman formerly of the Willows. Some wolves held grudges for a breadth of time so long, Stjornuati wondered if such things truly consumed them; he wondered that of the woman before him, too.

Their curses of him went unacknowledged, a staunch refusal to rise to their bite and bark. There is no sympathy, only explanation. The northerner knew no sympathy, not for her, not for his foolhardy sister, nor for any other wolf he had come across. It was not an emotion in his repertoire, and had never been.

His lungs expanded, a breath taken in so that he could force himself to lose some of the tension that his body held. How can the slate be cleaned? He asked after a moment, looking to the once-Willow wolf, then to the wolf that smelled of the sea.