Qeya River dignity broke the fall.

Frost was not one to leave the heart of the territory. He'd been born a quiet, inquisitive boy and little had changed in the months that had followed. He was observant, kind, pensive, and very much attached to the stability and security he found with the familiar. That being said, he was also curious. Intensely so. It was that curiosity that ever got him into those rare instances of trouble he encountered, and that curiosity that he'd inadvertently allowed to lead him so far from the center of the pack's territory.

When that insatiably inquisitive drive took him, Frost had a tendency to become single-minded in his pursuits. So it wasn't until he abruptly discovered the absence of pack scent that he stopped, picked up his head, and realized he had erred. The boy was approaching six months. His confidence had grown as he followed his siblings and learned from his parents what it was to survive in this world. He was still a child, though, and finding himself out of bounds was to set him right to the edge of panic.

In a whirl, he spun and searched his surroundings, desperate for something familiar. There was nothing. He had no idea how far he'd gone and in his panic, he'd lost track of what direction he'd come from. His ears pinned back as a piteous whine broke free of his throat and he shrank into the grass, uncertain what else to do other than try to hide from the alarming amount of shadows that had just made themselves known to him while he tried desperately to regain control of his racing thoughts.