Barrow Fields seaside, whenever you stroll along with me

his legs carried him in long strides to the sward, ears fanned forward as he sought the source of the bid for Grimnismal's congress. it hadn't been from any of their own, so he presumed the moments preceding his arrival were precious--awaiting him was surely a subpoena issued by Drageda to compel his own packmates to deliver him unto their kurdaitcha for purposes of execution. all because of a stupid remark he'd made weeks prior. would he be quartered by four horses, or buried alive à la vestal virgins? 

he drew up to Nyx, letting her know he was coming up behind her with a genial chuff, and if she would allow it, a nip on the chin in greeting. "what's up buttercup?" he intoned--to pester her--yet unaware of the interlopers. he gave ears to breakage in the grasslands, and turned his attention to the unfamilar wolves milling about several yards away. he hunkered down, ears pancaked against his head to lend him some breadth of obscuration just time for Caiaphas to come suddenly crashing from the trees like an outraged bull elephant, telling the trio off with a disposition of implicit wrath for having been disturbed.

unwilling to weather any offense gleaned from the summoning party after their inhospitable reception by his mother, Lycaon leaned into Nyx's shoulder and mumbled, "this is her on a good day."