Neverwinter Forest that which takes in turns, gives in spades

When he'd called Silvertip home, a pack had occupied this stately forest, wolves weaving in and out of the brush. They'd been rivals, during the famine, and the woods had been nothing more than a dark shadow down the face of the mountain to Phocion--he'd never set foot here until now, when he ducked into the trees, white pelt stark in the deep and verdant place.

He didn't plan on leaving Cortland for long. The boy was still hurt, and his mind was occupied in his own personal quest. To find family in these vast lands seemed a longshot. . .and yet here he was, looking for his own friend. He was honored that Cortland had chosen to stay by his side for as long as he had.

As if his thoughts conjured her out of nowhere, the earthy smell of the former priestess entered his nostrils. Blinking with utter surprise, Phocion raced toward the source of the scent, a bit clumsy in his haste. "Poet!" he called out to her, having not found her quite yet--but not wanting to startle her by bumping into her out of nowhere.

Finally--finally!--she came into view, and he came to a halt in front of her, tail wagging madly. "Poet," he said again, a grin of disbelieving joy stretching his muzzle. "I-- When you left the Valley, I thought. . .well, I needed to look for you," Phocion explained, tenor voice ringing through the trees. "I didn't think I'd find you, not so soon. Poet!" he exclaimed again, moved beyond further words.