Heron Lake Plateau Glam, glitz, guts and gore.

Fine, but no elaboration. She was essentially their mother, and yet Towhee withheld so much more. He deserved it, though. Phox knew that much. He would not get a clean slate here. Every time he had attempted a clean slate, he'd been thrown off of it, spat back into the wild a little more chewed up each time. And here was Towhee doing it again, as she had every right to do so.

There was no timeframe given with her order to wait by the waterfall, named after a wolf Phox barely remembered. But if X did not come for him, then the vultures would. He had meant what he had said, even if Towhee seemed not to believe him: he would rather die than live without her.

He painstakingly got to his feet and began to make the trek south. A piece of him wished she would give him something—anything—resembling warmth, but he knew not to expect it.

Piece of shit coward doesn't deserve it.

He did not know who Quixote was, but maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that meant they didn't know each other at all. Maybe Phox had a chance here after all. Or maybe not.

Piece of shit cowards don't deserve any more chances.