A light rain had begun to feel sometime in the night, though Normandy had sought shelter within a large log, the insides rotten out of it. The ceiling of it was crumbling in places, chunks of dirt and strands of moss twining in the wild tendrils of his silver and obsidian based coat. It had been a bit of a tight squeeze where his height had proved to be a bit of a challenge but the svelte man had managed to wedge himself into it, drawing comfort from the rich scent of earth, made crisp and pungent by the rain that pattered lazily upon it. It was a rich aroma that he associated with home for his mother had lived in a den whose mouth was inside a hollowed out log. A concubine of the Alpha Male she had never been able to physically stay with him, but every now and then Nevermore would come to them and stay though it was not often, nor a particularly long visit. There was no secret as to whom his father was, but he was a bastard son and though the pack was largely accepting (though they lacked a choice?) of Nevermore's concubines and bastard children Normandy had always felt the sharp sting of stares and spider whispers upon the wind.
He was one in a long line of them, and not fawned over as Nevermore's “legit” children, but Nevermore had favored his mother and this allowed Normandy the singular privilege of bearing the sire name 'DeMonte': Nevermore's own. Normandy hadn't understood the hype, nor the jealousy of the other bastards whom had, after that moment, proceeded to follow him around, unofficially making him the “Bastard Prince”. It wasn't exactly the most affectionate thing the pack could have called him but it had, unfortunately, stuck.
The grieving Bastard Prince could not stay in the Forest, though, and no matter how affectionate the pack had been towards him, Nevermore's favored bastard, they had turned against him at his mother's death. Without the Alpha's favorite concubine to step between, to act as his buffer between them and him, the kittens had morphed into vicious lions and he had found himself thrown in their den, the source of their hunger, so to speak. The earthen aroma, spiced by moss and rotten log reminded him of his mother and eased him into a restless slumber. Restless had been better than none at all and he had been moving, eager to rid himself of those who sought to end him.
It was with naivety that he did not understand why he was such a massive threat to them, but he was unable to come up with any further explanation for their abrupt and malicious behavior towards him at the death of Berlin. Even his half siblings, the fellow bastards had turned against him. It was with some reluctance that Normandy had writhed himself out of his tight squeeze of a shelter when the sun had begun to rise into the horizon, it's muted light cutting through the shadows borne of the dark of night. He had to keep moving. His situation was not so dire as to label him as desperate but he, true to his species, craved companionship in some form or another and he had never realized how alone he was until they all had went turncoat and he suffered through the harsh reality of things: he was utterly alone in the world and it worked a certain sour distaste of melancholy within him; of biting loneliness that he did not know what to do with, only that he needed to remedy it.
It was this that ignited his curiosity as he first entered the Wilds, his travels taking him close to pack territory. The scent markers were pugnent, undeniably strong, giving Normandy the impression that the pack was newer, for there lingered no old, nor stale scents. He had paused to investigate them, mentally counting their numbers from the scents he could discern before they began to blend into one scent, the unique scent that would become the pack's scent. The pack scent he had used to bear had been washed off of him, scrubbed off by the relentless beating of the sea's waves, determined to erase his scent trial to those whom would pursue him. They had aimed to kill, after all. The Bastard Prince was a threat to them, and thus he was a “kill on sight” target, lest he muss up their perfect and per-determined hierarchy.
The scent of the sea was all but gone from his wild, wind and log mussed fur, the warm aroma of earth and moss clinging to him now. He did not know if the Forest wolves would follow him this far, weeks away from their home, but he was not willing to play the dare-devil. Chartreuse gaze took in the beauty of it, this unnamed and claimed place, captivated by it. The spell was broken as a particularly fat rain drop splattered on his leathery, black nose and the cool kiss of it jerked him out of it, a soft shake given to dispel the water from his dampening fur. He drew in a breath, senses ambushed by their scent again, still new and foreign to him before he tipped his head back and let out a howl, alerting them to his presence ...and his interest.