(j) eagle of the ninth legion

Winter was fast approaching and anyone who was not aware that the chilling bite upon the nipping air meant that the time was coming for Natural Selection when the weakest of them would be purged by either starvation or hypothermia — which ever won the battle first — was either extremely dense or optimistic. Tarquin did not fail to notice that winter was a hairsbreadth away from them now, and it was with the days ticking by like blood beneath a bruise that he kept at the forefront of his mind one goal: find a pack. It wasn't ideal, per say, and by all rights there was nothing that said he had to leave his birth pack in the first place. He had known winter was coming long before he'd left Venia Dei but the omnipresent rule of his imbecile siblings was not a very pleasant thought despite how many times Tarquin had likened himself to the idea. Though he was beyond old enough he knew that his eldest siblings would never let him rule their parents' legacy, especially since the spot that Isi had once held, as Imperator at the side of Tarquin's mother the residential Imperatrix, rank names not taken from Isi's upbringing but from Phoebe's own (despite the told differences between Isi and Phoebe's father: Aether) and that, of course the eldest couldn't have the baby on the throne. Isi's death had been shortly after Tarquin had been brought into the world, but Phoebe, significantly younger than her late husband was still in her prime. He missed his mother, but found that unlike his siblings he could not miss his father, having never truly gotten to know him.

All that Tarquin felt that he had in common with him was the fact that they shared the Frostfur trait, and that he had Isi's eyes. Isi was nothing but stories, and the eldest of the DiSarinno-Frostfur clan had taken up the role of Alpha Male beside their mother. Tarquin could have stayed. It wasn't like they had chased him out or anything. He'd left Venia Dei of his own free will and now knew that like the sand at the top of an hour glass: his time was running low. He wasn't malnourished, a little skinnier than normal, perhaps, but his choices were slim and though he could handle fawns no wolf could take down a perfectly healthy, full grown deer by themselves. Tarquin had learned to make do with what he had, even if settling for seconds felt measurably beneath him.

It wasn't so far beneath him that self preservation was canceled out by it, however.

Tarquin's pace slowed, a quick glance taken skyward, frowning slightly at the cloudy sky. Perhaps, if things went according to plan, he would have shelter before the storm brewing on the distant horizon reached these foreign lands known to him only as “The Wilds”. Three of his brothers had before traveled here, and, none the wiser, Tarquin assumed that it was here that they still roamed. The Frostfur was aware that he was closing the distance between his body and a pack's borders, their scent markers prominent even though there was more than plenty of distance between him and them. Even so, knowing how the laws of a pack worked he stopped, tipped his head back, and let out a howl, announcing his presence at their borders. Never before had he actually been through the joining processes but he'd been taught pack politics like all of the DiSarinno-Frostfur children and was well aware of what was expected of him.