I'd not trade it for anything

no one is going to believe them.

 they swear they only adventured away from the pack in efforts to cook up a new idea they had. winter is harsh on flora, so it limits their ability to harvest the herbs they want, but the garden they’ve started and the dried ones they’ve preserved lasted them this long. they just needed… that extra kick so to speak.

 mouse had seen a bundle of turkey tail, ripe for the picking, when they’d tripped on their way back and… well. the mushrooms were gone from their grasp and weren’t even on the frost painted floor. just. gone.

 so were familiar pines and tall reds marked with their family claws. they’d joked about wanting space away from family, but this isn’t funny. (and the food was the most devastating part.)

 swallowing the lump in their throat, they resort to what they used to do when they were young: howl, and howl loud. lungs expanding on the hefty, round chef with the gusto of an opera singer. pops, where are you?

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@Runar or @Katja — open to any Vanderfell members, intending to join!

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A howl breaks the winter air, young and searching. For who, Runar is not sure, but there is one thing he knows. When one howls, one answers.

The call that responds is more mature, deep, and filled out to where the tune does not crack. A song that their wayward visitor had been heard, even if it was not the response they so desired. His arrival was as swift as his paws could carry, but any journey down the slopes always took some time, especially with the snow and ice that draped their peaks. Runar was a large man; the last thing he wanted was to take a nasty fall down the mountains.

It took some time, but soon he would arrive to find the yearling, though size alone said he couldn't be much younger than himself. “Runar has heard your call. What or who is it you look for?”

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 usually, mouse would be joined—their sister first, then their father and mother, and brother behind. they seek the comfort the choir brings. their voice, instead, is entwined with a bass melody they’ve never heard before. it startles their song into an off-kiltered, confused yet grateful end.

 moments tick by, and while they were the patient one of their siblings, they find themself worrying on the door—teetering between leaving the stoop empty, for their mystery savior to find a void where a wolf ought to be, and staying put. manners, taught by eve and hammered in by ma, keep them steady despite their overthinking. (curiosity, too.)

 it will be fine, they reason.

 mouse finds equal comfort-and-fear descending the mountain in the form of an impressive, dark ink-blob. tipped ears airplane, cheeks round in a smile, and tail tucks close to their hindquarter.

 “oh, right,” they steady, “runar, i appreciate you answering. i am mouse, and i am looking for my family. there are five of us. my pop is easiest to recognize; about your size, looks like a bear, green eyes…”

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The High King boasts a loud and unapologetic laugh at the other's introduction. “Mouse? You are like no mouse I have seen before.” Only the small ones that scurried under brush and leaf, far too little to be worth the effort for a snack. His laughter eases to a warm chuckle, pondering the plight that followed. “Runar is sorry— your family, they are no laughing matter. And yourrr 'pop'.” The word is emphasized with a click of his mouth, “Just to be clear, he is not real bear?” Either way, it seemed the boy's search was lost here.

Runar's humorous nature is quelled for something more somber, “I'm afraid only my family lives at the Summit. We have no bears.” The words rumble thick with an underlying apology, something he wished he could scrape from his teeth like a well-practiced doctor. “Oh, but you are alone! Yes? That is no way to be, not for a wolf your age.” Capable, surely, but young were best suited with a pack or their parents. His mother had taught him best, and even though he may be High King, Runar still listened to Mother.

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