The Heartwood imperfection's glow

To a degree, Echelon knew nothing of anxieties and how they plagued any sort. She was fearless in a sense, perhaps even an adrenaline junkie with the way she tended to antagonize or otherwise stir a rise out of someone. If there was ever anything she could have related to with the yearling, it was the loneliness and uncertainty; the feeling that there was no one coming to save them if things went awry.

With Tonravik so firmly out of the picture and her own state of awareness in some sort of disarray, Echelon hardly knew what kind of creature she was supposed to become. It wasn't easy for her to simply drop everything and just walk up to someone and go hey let me in. She had been thriving purely running from her own arrogant fuel and a few well timed events. Sometimes, they were ill-gotten gains.

And like any true scavenger, she was waiting now. The yearling would finish with the carcass and, true to form, wanting nothing to waste, Echelon would swoop in to pick off the remainders. Her silent seemingly indicated as much; the dark-haired wolf of Tartok was a poor conversationalist, even on a good day.