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The world's gone to shit more often than he can count.

It felt wrong, to have festivities, when there was a plague not even a day away from Avon's borders. The water was poison, acid, killing everything that drank from it's once fresh and clean (though turbulent) shores. Sparrow , one of the ones Fiadh had asked him to keep an eye out for what felt like a lifetime ago on their thankless tour around Mythris, had felt it's burn and payed dearly for it.

Yet she had been at the party too, briefly, taking a break from pupsitting the newborns while Fiadh fed them and joining in to get their own flowercrown.

Vitus himself was sporting a flowercrown too, his overly long neck fur braided and woven with the things to keep them from falling off. One of his crows had even shoved feathers into his fur, though he's been losing them throughout the day.

He thought he looked ridiculous.

Even worse, he'd spotted Wardruna, and so far has managed to avoid his aunt. The yearling didn't want to see the disappointment in her face, seeing as the trio had left while she was off...who knows where. Didn't want to argue about Northfall.

But the festivities bled into the night, fermented berries and mushrooms coming out as the children went to bed.

Would you blame him, for having some?

Perhaps, a bit too much.

Vitus was laying in the flattened flowers, sprawled out, staring at....well to an outside perspective...nothing. Staring off into the distance, hardly noticing the other wolves around him.

But he could see them.

Ghostly figures, spirits, swarming around tall wolf draped in bones and hide. Dark shadows flitting around them, open beaks cawing soundlessly.

His future? His end?

He thinks....they're the same.