Blackfoot Forest Lost behind the fading light

Eyes of softgold, swollen from crying, swung up to meet Wake’s stilled gaze. His ears flicked forward at the sound of an accent that was both familiar to his ears and somehow different from what he was used to. A different dialect, he guessed, but he could not dwell on it. The rogue’s head tipped sympathetically.

It is a great sorrow to hear that, he remarked softly. Unfortunately, I have not seen any young wolves for over a season now. Though Wake held no fondness for the younger generations, he could acknowledge how terrible it was to lose a loved one—especially in such a manner as disappearance, where there were no answers, only the gaping wound of their absence.

This is a woeful way to meet, Etienne. I am Winter’s Wake, he introduced himself solemnly. You are from the Creek, yes? Lestan’s Creek. If you tell me what they look like, I will remain vigilant for a sighting.