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It was… It was awkward to be face-to-face with him again. Not that he was very close, at least ten feet away, but the tension remained. It was Rancor who had cut himself off back then. Threw a fit and swam away, never to be seen again. There’s nowolf here, Clearing his throat, he looked around at the empty, lonely locale. Not one arguing pair of wolves? Nobody walking around yelling about their loneliness? The polar bear wasn’t even around, either. No demons, no gods. Am I dreaming? This part, he muttered to himself.

All of his body felt weird. Sort of.. Itchy, but not quite. He knew very well that drying water on his fur, and even SALT did not produce a feeling like this. Something here was very wrong, but the snow beyond the fire was picking up and there was no shelter for miles. Not that he could see, anyway. Eyes rolled in the horizon's general direction, head slowly turning to stare.

Something about Amorak, something about the packs. It seemed Mojave was still adamant about the existence of the zombie despite Rancor never having seen it himself. No signs, no smells. White chin pressed down on the dusty pink ice beneath him, finding it very hard to listen, or to pay much attention. His shoulders hurt! Stung, even! You and I both know if I start talking about myself, you won’t get a word in edgewise. Say what you were going to, or you’ll forget. If he hadn’t forgotten after two and a half years, he doubted he would now. He just didn’t want to talk about what he’d been up to. Not with his head being so foggy.

Foggy? Why would it have been foggy? He now glanced at the fire again, drawing in a deep breath to test the theory. I guess it smells.. Sort of weird. I don’t smell the usual kindling and ash. Crazy idea, but was the fire making everything weird? Was it some kind of magical Cinderclan relic from the war? Eyes oddly dilated for the amount of light he was looking at, he was forced to gaze elsewhere.

His sights fell upon the man ahead, illuminated in flowery pink.