Lion Head Mesa weighing feathers

The Pharaoh was a sharp thing who watched like a hawk with a lazuli stare. Foxfur did not like the feeling of the others’ eyes upon him. They did not say anything, and they had not been introduced, but the man who was called Pharaoh continued to play with them, hold them, press them to his body.

At least information was provided. The man had been a warrior called Germanicus and he had moved to establish an outpost in another territory. More importantly, Crowfeather was there, and he had suffered grave injuries. Foxfur felt his heart lurch and wondered if this was why the wolf called Germanicus had been so staunch in his nature.

The Pharaoh slid from his seat and drew toward Foxfur with a luring stare. He asked why it was that the princeling had run away from his royal line.

I cannot say, Pharaoh. If I had to guess, it would be perhaps that his role in our clan was too great and he was overwhelmed. What he remembered of Crowfeather was enough to piece this together.

May I see him?