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He was still searching, when he caught the scent; searching for knowledge, searching for clues, but he'd nearly forgotten about Fisher. And about Mau, and Fallah. But when the odor of noodle hit his nose his pendulous ears pricked up and he put that nose to the ground, trotting along at a lumbering mastiff's pace, snuffling as he pursued the odor.

It was Fisher, all right--and wet. The scent was more pungent here, and as the black dog finally rounded the corner and spotted him, his nose was smacked full-on with it. It was... strong, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that Fisher was alive, and Black felt something new: a flood of relief.

He had not felt guilty about leaving Fisher behind, but he had regretted it, somewhat. He knew he'd made the right decision about rushing off to find the thing-that-had-fled, but at the same time it had bothered him to leave the wounded brown-thing with its spark of inner fire behind. Now here it was, and as Black trotted up, he eyed him.

Fisher was larger, older, heavier, and far more scarred. And worst of all, he didn't see that spark of life in him, anymore. He looked--well, miserable.

Black slowed as he approached, head coming up. He spoke loudly, but his tone was relatively soft.

"You live. ...It is good," he said simply, and then moved up to snuffle over the Fisher, taking scents and hints to see what he'd been through and how he was--the nose was a sensitive thing, after all.

Then he tried to plant one cursory, pleased lick on Fisher's head, his thick tail wagging as he dropped to his haunches, staring expectantly at the brown-thing as if for orders.

But for the first time, there was something like joy in his eyes--the joy, perhaps, of a dog meeting an old friend.

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Black started, rather shocked, when Fisher suddenly leapt at him and burrowed deep into his fur--but he didn't mind. Rather, he lifted one paw, trying to peer rather quizzically at the mustelid that was now just outside of his field of vision, and this made Black's face look rather hilariously, deeply wrinkled. After a moment he slowly lowered the paw on Fisher's other side, as if to offer a hug or hold him close, but in an instinctive, entirely canine fashion.

"The Dog is sorry that he had left," he began, after a moment's thought. He wasn't sure why Fisher was so absolutely overjoyed to see him--he himself was pleased, but the big stoic hound rarely felt any extremes of emotion, and so did not quite comprehend it.

"But I am glad to see that you did not drown. ...Twice," he added. He gave the fisher a few reassuring licks before continuing again.

"He pursued the thing-that-ran, perceiving it as danger. It was not found. He has seen many things, and met many, and he still seeks, but the scent of the brown-friend brought him here. It was caught in the air, and it was followed. The Dog also wonders--does the white-cat survive?" Black sounded genuinely worried, but even so, he offered Fisher a couple of friendly nudges, again reassuring. The creature was clinging to him, after all, and Black--as far as his ways went--considered Fisher a friend.

"Or the large brown-cat, which climbs?" he added. The last he'd seen Mau, the little white kitten had been drenched and cold; the last he'd seen Fallah, or Fisher, had been when they were all rather, well, messed up from Aquarian.

"Do they live? Is the--are you well?" He snuffled over Fisher again, taking a few scents with interest, noting at least that there wasn't any too-fresh blood. That was a good sign. He hoped.

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Black listened attentively as Fisher spoke, face wrinkled in that deep single-minded focus that only a dog can offer. As his brown friend mentioned the self-centered inhabitants of the cave, he turned and glanced around sharply, as if half-expecting them to be converging on Fisher this very instant.

Finding nothing, he looked back down at the wet fuzzball. He pondered only briefly before answering him in the same stoic matter-of-fact tone he used with everything.

"If you wish to search, then the Dog will search with you. The white cat must be found." He had a note of chagrin in this last--in truth he'd never meant to go searching for so long on his hunt without actually looking for the white cat. She should have been his first priority coming out of Cetus, and she hadn't been.

Black didn't add anything else. He just sat, staring expectantly at Fisher, apparently--again--awaiting orders.