Kintla Flatlands such deliberate disguises.

He nodded, and with his head already oddly low, it felt very strange; so he righted himself and nodded again, a small motion which was likely concealed by the dark. Yeah, probably. I started north of here and followed the ocean. The smell of it - that salty, briney smell - hadn't followed him this far in to the tree line. But then again, his senses were suitably dampened by the dull weather. I like the ocean. The boy muttered, and then fell quiet once more.

The rain continued, punctuating the commentary by Mordecai, and Anselm was left to think in the quiet lull of the rainy mood. Going further inland would make him a prime target for other wolves - either out of vindictiveness, or kindness. He wasn't sure which was worse; a wolf who wanted to kill you, or recruit you. At this point the boy didn't want to be the center of anyone's attentions — he didn't want to be placed in a position of power, but he also didn't want to just wander for the rest of his life.

It was a predicament.

Have you been there? Inland, I mean. Anselm's voice was questioning in tone, but bright as well. It was rare to find someone so amiable in the wilderness, and so accommodating to his apprehension; Mordecai could have just abandoned him to the doom and gloom of the forest, but instead he was here, and for the first time in a long while Anselm had a sense of direction. There are probably hundreds of wolves and wolf packs out there.