In due time, Fenn’s ability to feel his legs recovered, much as the tingling numbness had sept out of his wings. Wobbly steps were had. Walking, he realize, became an easier task when one didn’t think so much about where they were putting their legs. Which he liked; instinct came easily to him. More easily than connecting thoughts together with manual mentalwork. The bag, sweater, and cloak off to the side were his, he knew, not merely by process of deduction, but a recognition of his hands. He liked the way they felt. They smelled better than the cold and dusty room. Cinnamon, dirt, honey, and something distinctively deciduous stuck to the battered fabrics.

It took him a vexing amount of effort to figure out how the clothes fit around his wings.

There was a green pendant around his neck too; it had been there when he was in the cocoon, come to think of it. The lash of it was silvery chain and not cord, thankfully meaning that the goop was easily scraped off of it. Banrion had told him not to take it off… and he wasn’t planning on it. He was trusting her for now.

As he set about struggling to figure out the configuration required to have both clothes on his person and free range of his new and terrifyingly unfamiliar insect limbs, Daugi made up her mind to more closely investigate his cocoon. She prodded into the crusty silks with a bold snuffle of her muzzle. A snort burst out of him as the remaining structure collapsed inward, shocking the beast into jumping back a few feet, ears swiveling warily. Silly creature. Maybe she was having a rough time puzzling out why the odd thing smelled strongly of him — of his blood, now that he thought of it. It registered faintly to him that fae blood had a sour smell and taste. There was something else there too. A hollow feeling that there was more attached to that bit of knowledge, but- well, it wasn’t there now, so what could he do about that?

…come to think of it, where had he picked up a direwolf?

Furthermore, where had he picked up that shiny, white satchel ? It happened to be a very nice satchel…

Standing in the middle of the room, fiddling with the knot of the heavy fabric making up the cloak (and ignoring how the draping felt under his twitchy flittery wings), he couldn’t help but glance aside at the bag lumped haphazardly on the floor against the bed’s draping sheets. Something in him wanted to rush over and yank it open. An instinct that said, “if this isn’t mine yet, it really should be,” ready to take it and run off with it at the drop of a hat.

With shaky, shy steps, Fenn gave into the instinct. It seemed like such a harmless impulse.

The bag’s clasp undid almost effortlessly to him. He knew how it opened. Sticking an arm in, the boy rooted around for- oh shit! This thing had no bottom! Or, none that he could feel, anyway. Curiously, Fenn lifted his hand out and stuck his head in.

It was dark in there — but the green stone around his neck shed a little light if he pulled it out of the bulk of his neckfluff! It did seem to have a bottom after all. So much in here! Gleefully, the puck began pulling out item after item and inspecting them.

Sharp, excitable frost flickered over everything he couldn’t keep his hands off of. There were bits of shiny jewelry in there, and maps, and a few books, and then some snail shells, and also bobby pins, and a direwolf lantern (awesome), and a stray rattling of coins… A pair of shorts significantly less gucky than the ones he’d been wearing in the cocoon were swapped out with his current ones — and the current ones were cast away. Trying to wash all that grey slime out seemed too daunting a task to him. Besides, he didn’t want to contaminate this strange and fascinating hoard he had! As he pulled out bits and bobs, he realized that some types of item appeared with alarming regularity.

Wallets. Lots of wallets. Very empty ones. None were his, exactly, despite being in his bag. No, they didn’t resonate quite right. They belonged to other people.

Fenn stopped and stared hard at a leather pouch. All these odd, shiny trinkets… they were stolen, weren’t they? Why? How? What ever got him into this habit? Not that he was complaining. Something about having piles and piles of neat things and money appealed to a skittery bit of his soul; yes, yes. They were his. He just… didn’t know the context behind them becoming his. The boy frowned, then, slowly began pushing things back inside the satchel’s sifan mouth.

It occurred to him that he’d probably never know the circumstances behind the relieved wolf at his side, or what he had once been. He’d only know what little he could glean through what had been left behind. The bag and clothes, the habits ingrained in his body… he could only speculate.

Banrion was right. He was, to some odd extent, building himself anew on the scraps of his past.