He had expected to feel...more at home. He had expected to feel some sort of great rush of belonging, or a deep certainty that this was where he belonged, after searching for all that time. But...no. He felt no such thing. He gazed around at the cold golden sand, at the distant shine of the pyramids, at the slinking crimson body of the Nile. And he was interested by everything saw; he was eager to explore, eager to get to know his new - old? - home. But it was the same eagerness he'd always felt when encountering a new place. And this, well...this was a new place. Though he'd hoped it wouldn't feel that way, it was. He had not been born in this desert; neither of his parents were here; no one here would know him; not even the Clan's name was the same. It was the ship of Theseus, he supposed, and he was climbing back aboard a ship whose components had all been replaced.
The soon-to-be-former traveler sank into a sitting position, forepaws resting lightly on the border. Cardinaldirections wondered suddenly if anyone would even remember his mother or his father; admittedly they were quite famous, but the world was big and it moved fast. Perhaps they'd been forgotten. He hoped not - he had a vague feeling that if the memory of Cataclysm and Amour lived on, there was hope for him yet to find his true home. Because he had looked - for years, he had looked - and had never been able to find it. Perhaps not. Perhaps he'd been running from where he belonged all this time. The caraval sighed into the yawning silence of the Harrow desert, and watched as his breath formed a plume. He waited.