Dragoncrest Cliffs up in arms, it's just the god of thinning dreams,

The battle of Drageda turf just days prior seemed so trivial in comparison to the tragedy that swiftly followed. Portia's death had wounded him anew, far deeper than any Rusalka dog's teeth could ever pierce. Everything else was insignificant. Grief kept him from those he loved most, choosing instead to venture at the edge of the pack's claim. For a time, he'd believed his mother natrona like Sequoia before her, and guilt suppressed his appetite. 

He simply wished to be alone, to process what had happened and figure out how he might move forward.

Dacio's sleep was tormented often, with dreams of the golden beast who'd sought to maim him and others of his disowned litter-mate forcing their dam into the sea. He was a mess, baring teeth to any who sought to reach out to him. He deserved this, he was sure. He deserved to suffer, for ever believing Portia could be capable of abandoning them.

It was only when exhaustion weighed heavily on him and the largest of his lacerations at the side of his neck began to fester that he sought the company of another. Where previously his mother would tend his scrapes as a babe, he now sought her... replacement? He had always been fond of Rose, and Drageda needed capable healers (who better than she who was trained by the late Fisa herself?), but there was something unsettling for Dacio about her taking Portia's place.

It was not the crimson medic he found, however, and he blinked in surprise as he pale gaze settled on the alabaster features of a wolfess he didn't recognise. "Oh," he lashed his tail, uncertain. "Sorry, I... was looking for someone else," he said, and turned his face away in preparation to leave her be.