Quote Witchety Grub:<br/>Prowling the borders of the Nation's encampment, Draekin had watched some of these others go, and had known instinctively that they would not be returning. They weren't like those that left the camp to scour the surrounding lands, searching for anything that might help them rebuild their shattered lives, returning tired and disheartened with, perhaps, a meagre supply of food, or water-logged branches and tree trunks, torn loose by the storms.<br/><br/>No, these others had no intention of returning, Draekin could see that much in their upright, sundered posture. And their was a similarity to their smell which struck Draekin as unnatural, told him with certainty that these people were not of the Nation any longer. Though they might wear the raiments of Elk, or Fox, or even Bear, they all smelt the same, and they moved together, ignoring their one time pack-mates.<br/><br/>"Cowards," he had spat at them, "weaklings and fools." Better that they had died in the Cataclysm, a clean death, rather than the walking corpses Draekin watched file awkwardly out of camp, moving as if they were children learning to walk.<br/><br/>"Yet further proof at how far we have fallen under your rule, Kiitani" Draekin growled, remembering. For a moment he wondered just how many had gone, and how many of those still lived? Then he snorted dismissively, and turned towards the centre of the camp, his eyes a dark mirror to all he saw. He moved on four limbs, the Spirit of Wolf strongly upon him. Few acknowledged him as he passed; none greeted him. Most fled from his gaze, his loose-limbed gait, the smear of blood on his muzzle. His eyes roved left and right as he walked, but it was his nose that he followed, and it was aimed at the Mystic.<br/><br/>He found her, looking as bedraggled as her People, comforting a child. "Your time would be better spent instilling strength in the child, O Mystic." Draekin said, "His pain will give him strength, if he learns to use it."