Swiftcurrent Creek Don Quixote

Cygnet languished, became distant and quiet in the absence of justice. She considered, from time to time, going to the seaside and searching for the masked would-be-murderer on her own, but fear kept her within the pack's borders for some time. Sobeille was not a wolf she would want to take on, on her own. If she'd learned anything from the events at the massive pack gathering, it was that she was not as strong as she thought she was. 

She remembered the taste of Arric's blood, still, but it became a bittersweet memory. Fights were not won by wishing, they were won with speed, strength, and cunning. She had not prepared herself adequately, but she did not feel motivated to hone her skills in the wake of such crushing failure. 

Now, she could only see with one eye- so what use was she? She hunted, she patrolled, but her loyalty to the pack came, largely, from being stuck.

She wasn't as strong as she thought she was, and she certainly wasn't as brave as she acted. She wasn't as clever as Sobeille, nor was she as kind-hearted as the wolves who had taken her in, and offered her endless patience and support. She existed, but only as much as a breeze might; adrift, she wandered along the borders, questioning the meaning of her own life.