Wanderer.

Lost.

Forgotten.

His was a name that meant nothing. Dreams that had fallen from the leaves of the tree of his life, brown, brittle, scattered to the wind, to the four directions.

Who even was he? What was he doing here? He'd followed a girl, chosen to stay, found happiness in being lost, but she had brought him back, and discontent followed.

There were no borders, only caribou, and while he wished to wander alone with his thoughts, Aivar found two interlopers; one light, one dark. He didn't care a whit, and maybe he should have.

The wolf's stormcloud form peeled from the long, deeper shadows of the trees in fading light. He moved with one hind leg drawn up, limping as if wounded, but there was no fresh wound. His eyes burned like coals. There was no warmth to be found there, no welcome. The scent of the caribou hunters had faded in his time away, but it was there again. For now.

His eyes traced over the two.

“Hungry?” He asked, his words distinctly common, distinctly not like that of the caribou hunters.