“Crete Gyrfalcon Redleaf-DiSarinno,” Crete could feel his ears slick flat against his skull as Tyrannus loomed like a scarred shadow over him, forcing the confused mute into submission, his teeth bared and lashing at the mute’s scruff when he had not sank down - thinking the situation unfolding before him rapidly and wildly out of control was a prank - “you are hereby and for every day to come exiled from Flightless Falcons.” The timbers of Tyrannus’ voice sounded to be made of steel, harsh and violent as Crete felt the words vibrate through his elder brother’s throat. Crete shuddered violently in his sleep, remembering the panic and disorientation that followed, as he desperately tried to place where he had done something to deserve exile. He was loyal - loyal to his parents, and had accepted Tyrannus’ claim to the throne when Aether had passed away and March Owl had stepped down. If anyone had came to his defense - Crete could not remember, instead glimpsing a sea of faces, hisses of whispers - words that had lost their meaning in the deafening pounding of his heart, and the ocean wave of fear that had collided and washed over him. Exiled. Where was he going to go? What pack would take a mute? How was he even supposed to attempt to join a pack when he couldn’t communicate with words?
Crete awoke with a startled gasp of breath, sucking greedily at the stinging, chilly morning air, his heart pounding against it’s prison of sinew and bone. Fur ruffled along his nape, as he looked around, disoriented by the abruptness in which he had awoken and stood up, jumping to his feet, expecting to see Tyrannus standing over him, threatening him. The pain that spread like fire and ice in his heart, nearly winded him, as he took another deep breath in attempts to calm himself. It was still a painful and hard thing for Crete to grasp. Betrayed by his own brother, for crimes that he knew not. It was hard to ask Tyrannus what he was being accused off and exiled for when he had no voice to raise in protest, and in a direct fight the seasoned brother would take him - all hands down. He was a like mortal Ares (never mind that Athena always trumped Ares). It plagued Crete’s slumber, and though he chose not too consciously dwell upon the festering and fresh unseen wound, it left him with irritating mood swings, general mistrust, and an aching need for solitude most days that if not given would lead to, in some cases, aggression; of which was nearly unheard of in the quintessentially benevolent mute.
Peregrine had traveled in the direction Crete had taken, or at least he had went in a similar direction. Crete had tried to catch up to Peregrine numerous times, despite that his littermate was maybe a week ahead of him, but all attempts had been futile, and during the rare occurrences that Crete had picked up Perry’s scent - it was faint and all but non existent. It was encouragement that he was at least, on the right path. Crete stretched, sea green eyes taking in the landscape around him with musing intrigue, lifting his muzzle to the air ever so slightly to inhale the crisp scents. He was getting close to a pack’s borders, and felt internally torn. He needed to find a pack to stick with at least through the winter - though he needed a new home with permanence period - and his disability would make it measurably complicated. It was not an ordeal he was particularly looking forward too, but if he didn’t there was no guarantee he would survive the harsh winter. He could give it his best shot and that would have to be sufficient enough.
Steeling himself, he began to pad in the direction of the pack’s borders, stopping when he was the respectful distance from the scent markers and himself. Crete stood there, awkwardly, for a few moments not sure he how he was going to attract attention himself. A soft sigh pushed from his lungs and lips, as he settled back upon his haunches, figuring he would just wait until someone came through patrolling the borders.