It was only easier to acclimate into the tense world around her because her identity had never been compromised by pack culture.Beyond the pain that twist in her chest, sharper than any knife, the little rosy hell-dog can manage to breathe despite a fog of mucus in her throat. Sitting wide and deep like guilt's black mold. A manifested representation of anxiety. The same sort that had kept her complacent for most of her childhood - and would well into adulthood as well. It's strange ... so strange outside of the area she'd always known... but never had it been her to fear the unknown; Her twin had always managed to suffer the brunt of reality. And it'd taken Rosanna a long time to believe it existed. Despite the heavy undertone of her current youth. She'd been drug out to sea from her family, fabricating some great fantasy that'd died out holed up in a cove.

Rosanna almost calls for it's guidance - begging again for that sense of wonder in her chest... in the hushed silence of her own wandering mind where she's harshest to herself. Yet, still manages to draw strength through the link of silence. Wishful thinking enough motivation to keep the girl moving and moving. Until Saboro... her life... was miles behind her. Over crags and nannies, hills and valleys, -- further than her eye could make out the towering volcanos detail. Another reminder of that places cementing lore. Standing like a tall man to cast a great dark shadow Rosie would always feel just over her shoulder.

Free, but still at what price?

Paranoia... suspicion... it crawls and curls from the bottom of her gut to curl around her heart. It's tendrils branching out like a thorn bush. A heart-beat and she's reminded it's there. Further away, Rosanna needed to go further than anyone would miss her. Than she could remember how the jungle moss felt between her paw-pads. Until no face was familiar besides her own... Maybe trimming the briars might erase the pain eventually. In the mean time, the golden daughter weathers the storm. Drawn from her thoughts and dreams to jog further into the span of alien territory. Surrounded by nothing but expanding questions and new smells. 

Driven away hours from her trek, nowhere in particularly but by her own sense of direction. Until finally she loses the strength of running to her stomach. Abandoning her haze for nourishment that lacks the compass to guide. She has never been particularly well at hunting -- not since she'd lost the vision in an eye; Depth perception not nearly trained to accommodate yet. Though still though the gold wolf tries. And only by happenstance catches the smell of a rabbit, close enough she probably should have already realized.

A few minutes of investigating reaps rewards at a den. But the moment she comes into realization so does the other creature. Racing disastrously from it's hide to sprint through scrub underbrush and land. Leading the (promptly following) Rosanna on a wild chase that eventually rewards the animal it's freedom. But only when in the exact moment it's luck both run's out, like the breadth difference between a curse and a blessing. 

Someone else is among the brush, no more than fifty feet away. Though Rosanna could recognize the shade of brown blind in both eyes. She hadnt known what Lucas had meant about their other sibling... and the edges dont cut inside anymore when her heart rises to meet hope. 

Micah?

She's so afraid to think it, to call out, to want it - and instead Rosanna can only stare the distance between them stark legged and completely still. Her back still arched with body language, tense and surprised while long ears perk upward and outward to listen; Fearing all at once what it meant if it wasnt, and if it was. 

But.... "Chickadee?"

She has to know.

@DustyForgotten 

Nervous. 

Haven was fearless, bold, a bastion of strength and power. She was good, ferociously good, and she told herself she would never run from a battle again, after Eschaton. She would not hide or cower from any foe. Approaching every problem head on, teeth bared, was the only path she knew to take. No surrender. Bravery and honor. Duty. Mantras that she whispered silently in the core of herself whenever she was afraid. 

Right now she was nervous. 

Taking a deep breath, she approached the den, peering silently into the depths. The birds in the trees chirped warmly, the purple leaves from the trees billowed down in the autumn wind. The queen didn't feel like a powerful ruler, right now. It was just past dawn now, and the last flowers of summer had died. She wanted to meet with the elite before he began work, so she had risen early. 

"Trice?" She asked, her voice quieter than usual. 

I just spoke with the medics. You're going  to be a father. No, it wasn't soft enough. We need to talk about what the implications of our relationship is for the pack. He cared for her, didn't he, so why did any of this matter, why did any of the words matter. I don't know how to do this, I don't know how to be a mother, I don't know how to be in love. I don't know how to have family. No.  

"I need you for a moment."

The queen didn't often come to this part of the packlands. She just really, really wanted to be alone right now.

Xenia's suggestion rang out in her mind like the sound of a tolling bell. (It's not like it's a bad thing, she should be happy.) Haven didn't know what to think about it. She didn't want to talk about it. Didn't know what to DO. Her hip ached and she suddenly felt old, despite being in the prime of her life. She wanted to be alone, away from the rest of the pack and their sunshine and lavender, and so she'd come to the graveyard, walking curiously among the ancient skulls of the mammoths that had once dominated this land. She didn't often come to this part of the packlands. Death everywhere, except in her. 

Haven knew how to lead nations and armies. She did not know how to love something as gentle as a family with her hands so covered in blood. 

She sat down in the curve between the two tusks of one of the smallest skulls. She stayed there for some time, forepaws draped over a jutting piece of ivory. The quiet was good, and it lasted, until a feeling of unease began to creep through the queen like a shudder. Someone was watching her. Within seconds she had scrambled to her feet, hawk-yellow eyes scanning the surrounding area - skulls and dust and moss, someone was hiding here. (The part of her brain that always watched for brown fur and green eyes said ITS HER ITS HER but she didn't let her expression falter.) 

"Show yourself." She said at last, her gaze sharp and firm, her stance unyielding. "Now." 

Moons had passed since he felt the crunch of snow beneath his heavy paws, the familiar chill that found its way to his black hide even under his layers of white fur. For a time he felt as though the warmth would drive him mad, but there would be no turning back now. He'd come too far from his birthplace at the top of the world, suffered too much to simply give up. Doing so would be to forfeit his life.

The huge male leaves the shadows of a quiet forest and emerges at the grassy edge of a still lake. In the early morning dim, a thin fog swirled just over the mirror like surface. Ulvar stops just at the edge of the water, toes sinking into the soft soil, and he allows himself to sit and gazes at his reflection.
His coat, once as white as the snows of his homeland, has become dingy. His eyes, still sharp, have a tired stare to them and perhaps a little droop beneath. The worst of his scars, a split in his upper lip that reveals his fang, gives him a permanent grimace that adds to his fearsome appearance. Life had certainly dealt him a cruel hand. But he's alive and strong, and there isn't much more he can ask than that.
He considers slipping into the lake, to cool off and rid his pelt of the filth he'd gathered on his travels, but he simply continues to sit.

Vesper considers herself an aspect-- an extension of the Trinity, an infallible vessel of God's will. She is humble for it, almost to the point of self-flagellation. If she did not have the Spirit, she would not be. This truth is simple. Incorruptible. Ineffable.

There was some sort of uprising here, that placed the Dragon that invited them in her position. She controlled from a throne without worship for how long, and now wears a rosary about her neck. Truly, this is an alliance meant to be. It begs the question, however-- what has become of the prior ruling class? How does dissidence breed, what allows it to overtake? Ripley bested the witches of the Grove, just as Azuhel righteously took her place as High Dominus-- but how? Could an unbeliever use these same techniques to wrest power from their carefully constructed hierarchy, and demolish their way of life?

The leopard considers, as she stares out upon the lands. These trees, with their charred, flaking bark, are not so easily climbed, but the Captain has managed. She waits, in the treetops, in the shadow of the canopy, for who may catch her attention. Someone she could question on these topics. Someone to probe for the weakness of Alteron-- in case the need should ever arise. In case this alliance is not of God's plan.