Shadowwyn Moor relinquo

There is a call upon the wind—a voice that, unfortunately, is familiar to the shadowborn creek wolf, and while he feels a pull of ire within his chest, his features remain intact—unmoving.

Even more unfortunately, the howl was not far—and as he was on the trek home after observing the migration of a herd—and if he were brutally honest, seeking any scent or hint of where any of his children had gone—he saw the shadowed figure in the distance.

But he did not respond. Nor did he feel the need to. Silvertongue had spoke her piece and desire of him to remain out of anything that held her personal business… the scar upon his face painted by her tooth with the demand of it. And so he would turn to reroute himself—to skirt around the nonsense, a broken antler carried heavily by his weary jaws.

But it wasn’t meant to be—not truly. For in the distance, a very familiar silver wolf was stalking toward the ill-willed man, and Akavir found his gaze narrowing—his wayward supposed to-be Beta… considerind to elevate in rank, and then having messed off.

Impassive in his nature outwardly, the Mayfair adjusted his journey—lest the wolves of Kvarsheim have more bitter words for the she-wolf who defended her hearth and home.