On the Move

Arriving at the hot springs they'd passed a number of times in their scouting trips and travels, Alastor couldn't help but feel a little bit of bittersweet melancholy. This was all still wrong. They should have been the ones setting up a pack back on the island. They should have been the ones with a permanent home. Not the ragtag band of alcoholic diseased sea rats. But as much as the hatred for the bitch Sparrow and her motley crew of failed abortions festered in his blackened heart, nothing could change the events of the past. This was the hand they had been dealt, and they would have to play their cards to their advantage.

Alastor assisted Manea in unloading their supply carts and clearing out the old abandoned dens around the springs. It looked like nobody had been here in a long, long time—not consistently, at least. All the scents in the area were stale and there were no fresh tracks to be spoken of. Once all of the wagons were unloaded, the call of his mate summoning the band took his attention away. Making his way to the bonfire she and Irilyth had built, Alastor took his place beside Manea, leaning gently into her side while he leaned in to place a few affectionate nibbles to the woman's scruff. Then he waited for the others to turn up.

"Alastor Mendacium"