Having mastered the flora (and few fauna) in their homeland, Lárus was becoming bored with his constant life and lack of dynamic twists. He was becoming cruel with his kills and cold in his intentions. Constance suggested he journey and master different flora, and maybe discover new fauna he could add to his used collection. Locally, he only had certain amphibious creatures, snakes, and some spiders; but what might be waiting for him elsewhere? Constance had noticed he had a liking for working with his small animals, though why, she couldn't fathom. They usually all died anyway.
Lárus agreed to go on this journey, though he didn't see it the way his mothers did: that he was being sent away to protect the rest of them from his growing boredom. A curt pack gathering to send him off, and he'd have been on his way if not for his sister raining down on him aggressively. If he was going, she was going, because she was the leader. Lárus never had any qualms about this statement and remained below her while she stood over him at the Iseldur borders, all roughed up and staring back at their family. Their mothers must have agreed (not that he could see from his position), because Siberian stepped aside and kicked him in the ribs with an order to get up.
And so they were off! Siberian leading the charge with her tail high and mighty, Lárus slinking behind her wondering what he might learn.
When traveling with his sister Siberian in search of a good teacher to learn medicine under, tragedy befell him. They were traveling with two others through the snowy tundra, and Siberian had gone out with the others to hunt. Lárus stayed behind, alone, to watch his cache of few winter herbs. But Siberian—she was most important to him. If neither of the others came back, he would scarcely notice. He had vowed to live his life for her, that she would conquer the world; he was learning medicine so that he may heal her wounds, and treat her ailments. But as he awaited the return of the hunting party, she did not crest the ridge. Her coldfire eyes did not greet him, her massive body was not among the others. Her voice was not one of the few talking to him all at once. These wolves who smelled of wolf's blood.
Gone, they were saying. Died. An accident. Fell. Unrecoverable.
Lárus did not know many emotions. He had not felt pain, sadness, rage.
When his eyes focused on the pair, shifting randomly, he did not know them. In a flash of fury, fur, and teeth, he whirled from his position in the snow and attacked them. He suffered for it. He was blinded by their words and by the blood that stained the white around him; but his world had never felt so far away.
He left one of them wounded, he didn't know which, but he was too wounded himself—he hadn't trained to fight, but he knew what killed a wolf. He vomited several times, overwhelmed by the smell and sight of blood. His instinct told him this was not right. He searched the tundra for days, but he could not find her.
His purpose in life was gone.