Kildeer Rest This Race Is a Prophecy

While the wolf ran, he too wondered why such a tragedy had befallen the pack. There was no doubting their devotion to the High Elk; they had been faithful, had they not? They were thankful for all that he provided, they respected tradition, honoured the very forest He inhabited.

Yet, all the same, He had unleashed his wrath upon them and scorched the earth; they could never return. Why, why, why? Like Calhoun, Brewster could not keep his mind from wandering to thoughts of that albino, Whitney. He knew he could not solely blame the Witch for the disaster, at least not yet, not while everything was still in tatters. He had to find the remnants of his family first, the rest of the Déorwine who had scattered to the wind.

Brewster limped determinedly through the grassy field, his nose working overtime as he followed a faint scent trail. From memory, he recalled it to be that of one of his nephews and, as it grew stronger, he finally put a name to the smell. Ah, Calhoun. Of course it was him. He still couldn't make his mind up about the boy; he had proven himself as a devoted sort which was admirable, yet he reminded Brewster a little too much of his sister's husband.

A lone figure appeared in the distance as he drew closer, still and silent, seemingly searching. The man gave a grunt as he accidentally used his burnt forepaw, before haggardly closing the distance between he and Calhoun. "Good to see at least one of my brother's spawn made it out, hey boy?" he called out gruffly, flashing him a half-hearted smile in greeting.