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It had been long enough since the events of Clay being dangled off the side of the mountain, enough time that Hieronymous and Ira had spoken about the event and for decisions to be made about the events that day. Picking his way down the mountain side in a path he had carved over the years, Hieronymous made it to their hunting grounds in record time. His breath now visible at this altitude as eyes scanned the stream and woods surrounding.

Man he wished he could just track Clay like any other wolf.

“Hey Clay, are you still around?” He'd call out before starting his own tracking journey. One that was slower than the traditional canine way, but it worked for him. There was a pawprint he found... but it was too small, more likely from a wolf smaller than Hieronymous - definitely not Clay.

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Clay had not been long for his journey, having just passed back into the run from druid's dream following his few days of leisure away from his temporary place of home. His paw steps were heavy with the weight of what the past moons had brought upon him; several different revelations that blurred and construed. Through the shrubs and lively green of Ullarcraig the scarred wolf moved, his gait sluggish and casual.

He had yet to see Vulture, and he didn't know where his new pal 'Miseri' had snuck off to. So that meant he was alone — and then he stood incorrect. At the sudden trekking of footfalls, Clay turned, glancing over a lean shoulder. His brows lifted in a steely surprise.

“Hiero?” The man questioned, a puzzled look coming to rest upon his face. What did the man want, need, from him? “You n-need something?” The man mumbled in question, looking upon the other wolf hazily. He hadn't slept much, and it surely reflected in the way he leered quietly.

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Thankfully his search wasn't long. An answer came relatively quickly and he followed the sound with ears drawn forward. Listening to footsteps so he could follow if Clay was moving. Thankfully he wasn't and the young man came into view pretty quickly. The painted man smiled in greeting first, taking note that Clay seemed tired.

He'd make this quick. Hopefully.

“I'm sorry to bother you. Just wanted to check in and see how you were doing? You know... since that day.” It was an awkward topic to touch on, this wasn't his son, nor was he an official member of Vanderfell... nor did it seem likely he'd ever be after a talk with Ira; and he was in a way trespassing despite the kind gesture Renn did. It was just all a mess.

“Have you and Greyback spoken since then?” Wanting to make this as relaxing as possible, he didn't smile but nor did he frown. The High King's expression was relaxed as he took a seat, hoping Clay would do the same to take a load off.

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Since that day. 

Clay visibly stiffened whenever the memories came rolling inwards. Being dangled off a cliff by your own father tended to put a damper, a dent, in the relationship. The foundations had cracked, and Clay had been stewing. Stewing rather bitterly since the encounter — and his father hadn't showed face nor tail since the day. Clay supposed it worked both ways, though, didn't it? He hadn't bothered to find Greyback, to call out to him and summon him to the run. He scoffed, turning his head, looking anywhere but Hiero. 

“I'm living.” He replied, voice gruff in response despite its natural softer ring to it. When the Wolven King pulled himself onto his haunches to rest, Clay hesitantly mimicked his actions, his demeanor standoffish and uncomfortable. He still was trying to piece it all together — how he had ended up here, how he had come back to life, how — coincidentally — his whole family was here. And they had all moved on, and there no longer seemed to be a... place for Clay amongst them. It'd been made abundantly clear. And Clay? He didn't give a fuck. Or he told himself that. 

He muttered something in his mother tongue, ignorant to whether or not Hiero could understand him. "Å bli hengt fra en klippe er ikke noe man går videre fra så raskt.” — Being hung from a cliff is not something you move on from so quickly. It was muttered beneath his breath, mostly only for him to hear, but if the King heard and understood, then more power to him to reply. Clay's green eyes that mimicked his mother's rose upwards and he leveled with the man, shoulders slumping with exhaustion, peeling his large form into something more small. When he had died, he'd been a runt — and still, sometimes, he felt as if he still were. He forgot his own size often. He would never be the beast his father was, though. No, surely not. 

“No.” His reply was short and almost snapped. “H-he hasn't bothered to talk to me... why should I-I speak to him?” Petty, petty, petty he was. 

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If Hiero was anything, he was an endless pit of patience. Only losing it when stress hits its peak and danger lurked around the corner. For moments like these, he was the picture of calm and understanding. Not caring or frowning when the younger man spat in harsh tunes toward him, nor did his gentle smile falter when the other was obviously closing himself off to the High King.

Ira would be different, he knew this. And it was why he insisted to be the one to talk to Clay. He dreaded talking to Greyback, only imagining the stubborn fool wouldn't budge. A problem for another day... maybe Ira can get through to him, but still. They were partners on this mountain, her word was as good as his - but he knew when to take a step back when necessary for the greater good. Still, he hoped Ira could get through to her father before things took a turn like it did with Orlaith. “And you've made a friend here, haven't you?” Clay was "living" but hopefully it was more than just in the shadow of his father.

The mumblings drew his ears forward to try and catch them, to try and make sense of it but he couldn't. They were of a language he couldn't speak. Maybe Ira could have understood, maybe Clay didn't want him to understand whatever he was saying.

The boy snapped, and the High King didn't budge. Clay shrank before his very eyes, one so tall was now akin to a whelp. “I'm not here to mend broken family ties, Clay.” His voice was soft. Not wanting to push the boy more than he already obviously was. Whatever happened, it was traumatic. He had seen such things before in others during times of war. “Your father will have his own chat later, either with me or my wife.” Hopefully that would reassure the factious man.

“Do you have any plans for yourself?” Surely he had some time to think about his next actions since that day.

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