Horizon Ridge Memories of Yester and Yore

Gunnar slid faded paws of sandy gloves across the ground. Masked steel eyes stared up and around. He didn't know quite yet where he was going, only that he wished to go. He stopped and stared at the final place he had come, and bowed his head as he looked out over the ridge. 

It had been impressive once, he saw the pile of rubble where the ridge had once stood. Eyes tracing along it's spine. His mother had often told him of the story, of what had happened. She would whisper of it in her quiet voice. Ragnar would share tidbits too, the few moments when his guard was down and he spoke with his children unguarded and raw. 

He missed his parents, he hadn't realized how much until just that moment. His father had died, and he had cried for days, but he had also feasted and regaled in stories of his father. His parents had not been perfect, he liked to think of them as imperfectly perfect for each other.

He nosed around until he found the old whelping den. And he settled there. It was now falling apart, but he remembered some of it, not much. The smells, Julooke, Verrine.