It had only been some five years since Dagonet had last set paw on Glacium, passing through briefly as he fled the destruction ravaging the then inhabitable Traum, but in that short time the landscape had changed drastically. The mountain peaks, once seemingly impossibly high for such a small island, had shrunk and spread out; evidence of the cataclysmic shift littered the slopes in the form of folded cliff faces and the scattered boulders over which the immense male was currently navigating, leaping nimbly from one hulking stone to the next.
His return to the Traum islands had been purely by happenstance. In the years since The Order had fallen, Dagonet had made his living as a mercenary and assassin; and his most recent target, in their desperate attempts to flee fate, had led him back to the land he had once called home. Though he was hardly the sentimental type – preferring to leave the past where it lay in favor of new horizons – something had lured the former Rittmeister to linger. After taking out his mark Dagonet had found himself venturing back to the territories once occupied by The Order, a phantom silently visiting old haunts: the stone training grounds which had once been his domain, still faintly stained by the blood of gruelingly trained recruits, the remote, musty cave where crusty old Bukowskie once maintained his forge and produced the fermented fruits so prized among The Order’s soldiers.
A hollow sense of loss reigned in the pit of Dagonet’s chest as he re-visited these places, torn between a sense of pride and devastation. The Order had been flawed in its own way; Dagonet had not always agreed with Dragunov’s methods and motives. But in spite of those fleeting differences, there had always been something pure about their organization – even the most savage, bloodthirsty of their numbers united by a common cause, a vision to unite Traum in a veritable paradise worthy of its bloody cost. All lost to sheer misfortunate fate.
Eventually he’d left the main island at his haunches, passing through Glacium once more to be on his way – and he might well have left the islands behind forever, had it not been for a chance vision while treading a high ridge. A flicker of white miles in the distance. Usually Dagonet would have paid no mind to a random wolf witnessed from afar, but there was something about this one – something about the way they moved through their surroundings – that left a certain name branded upon his thoughts: Zero.
The odds of this being the wolf he sought were virtually nothing, Dagonet knew this from the start; but something lured him onward in search of the elusive figure. He had changed his course, navigating his way down from the high slopes over which he had been treading, until finally he came across the scent of the one he sought. It was not Zero, Dagonet became aware of this the first time he caught the stranger’s scent; but that did not deter him. Now instinct drove him forward, a subtle knowledge that this beast might lead him to what he sought. And now he was closing in.
Dagonet treaded lightly now, a shadow in the dusk. His ears were alert and swiveling, nose twitching in constant search of the nameless white wolf he sought. She – he was fairly certain of that much at least – was somewhere nearby. Now he had only to corner her.