Better Late than Never

Alastor was not a happy wolf. His fur had grown back following the loss of it to that cursed bath bomb a season ago—except it hadn't stopped growing back. The dire brute was now sporting a coat of long, luxurious black fur that looked like drapes of silken ebony, only marred by his fiery red markings that had also come back in their same place. His tail dragged across the ground where he walked, cascading like a waterfall of black and red, picking up stray leaves and bits of sand and required constant grooming to keep from knotting. He felt and looked absolutely ridiculous, and even now he continued to curse the firefly demon's name—whatever it might be—for the predicament he was in. Manea had appeared to love his new fur though, despite her initial bouts of laughter when she saw what had happened to his coat. That had been a fun time for his masculinity...

Still feeling ridiculous and far too feminine, Alastor trudged along with his wife to meet the island pack of the southern continent, a despondent scowl painted on his visage. They arrived at the beach and scanned the island just across the sound, the scent of the pack strong even from here. Well, he had to hand it to the Fenmyre alpha, he knew how to pick a good location. Tropical, lush, and easy to defend from would-be invaders. He stood on the dock with Manea and his children, studying the winch and pulley system set up while Manea called for an audience with the alpha she'd mentioned she met once before. Looking between the dock here and the ones on the island, Alastor realized the pulley system was for a ferry. Nudging Manea, he motioned to the ferry, then began to pull the winch, bringing the ferry steadily over to their side of the sound. By the time the alpha answered, they'd have the ferry and they could begin crossing without wasting any time.


"Alastor"