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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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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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