forget all the names we used to know
There’s much to consider when your back is broken by another horse and yet, you still live and wander as you always have. It bothers Crevan, only because he’s not sure why or how he’d healed so completely. He should be dead - rotting slowly into the forest floor of Sylva - but he’s not, and he can’t seem to figure out why someone like himself should be given innumerable chances at life. Makes him feel … reckless.
With the sharp turn of his nose, he halts the daily rounds of his new hunting grounds and perks bone-pale ears to the sound of a desperate mare’s cry. It’s enough to send him bounding over the hilly feet of mountains near the west, directly into the heart of Sylva where the noise had originated. Before long her scent washes over him, and the scent of another (surprising?) who’s coppery tang makes his stomach coil with hunger.
“You two won’t be going anywhere.” Crevan snarls, gliding swiftly onto the scene. For one wolf he’s formidable: as massive as his ancient ancestors, the direwolf, and not yet fully three. One wolf alone might hesitate to engage two horses, especially one stallion whose girth is hardened by muscle, but for some reason Crevan is past caring and, besides, the familiar trickle of blood on the dark man’s shoulder only serves to work the young wolf into a lather.
He howls. Turns a pink nose to the sky and looses a warning that’ll be hard to ignore. The sooty she-wolf should be lurking about, even if Gryffen wasn’t here to deal with these intruders himself, so Crevan only lowers his head to pin first one, and then the other with a blue-black stare. “Run,” He threatens, “and you’ll regret it for the rest of your short lives.”
revan