![[Image: 49679186_402932550451133_3860079414955089442_n.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/49679186_402932550451133_3860079414955089442_n.jpg)
Tristan sat cross-legged with palms curled about his knees, staring downslope and drinking in the smell of rock and ice. Home was colored with painful memories, but also with familiarity. Thorn Paw's greeting flushed disgust, and into the void, Tristan grinned. But before he shared a response, a shriek cracked the air like the snap of thunder.
He threw his hands over his ears and twisted. The Trollstone's fury lashed out, but the face remained as marble. And YOU stink of wolf! it screeched.
The outburst retracted as the shadows sucked back upon themselves.
"Uncle," Tristan said, jaw tight, muscles tense. He pushed to his feet, swiping at the mud stuck to the leathers of his backside pants, and presented himself before its face, staring into the flatness, and beheld the reflection of his own golden eyes until the spirit within slunk deep into the heart of the stone.
He turned back to Thorn Paw, the image of a pup hiding its nose under one paw, ashamed, curled apologies from his thoughts. He missed the old wolf as he came to its side.