He presses through the barren land as if he has traipsed it his entire life. Each step is confident, accentuated by a proudly lifted head and the slight upwards angle of his equally proud tail, and there is no hesitation in his gait. And, yet, despite this unafraid countenance, there is a detectable anxiety to the wolf’s face, displayed in the backward tilt of his ears and the narrowness of his strange eyes. He has not walked this terrain before; never has he set foot in this ash-covered territory, and its lack of foliage brings him to stop a few feet from the scent of the border. For a few heartbeats the tall male stands, caught in the visible throes of indecision, and he contemplates his options. Will he listen to the uneasy sibilate building steadily in his wary heart, or will he push those couple strides to be scrutinized? Along with the specters of disinclination that muddle his brain there are cries of desire, jeers of his cowardice at his unwillingness to risk both pride and pelt to the wolves of a pack. Finally, Ishmael kneels to the wanton shouts of his social, quickly beating heart, and closes the distance between him and the border.
As soon as his destination is reached, the lupine male settles onto his powerful haunches, poised for physical ascension if there is even an expression of hostility. Having lived in isolation for the majority of his year of travel, he has become unused to the ways of a pack, and his vulnerability forces him to circumspection of the most guarded kind. The blunt muzzle and dual-colored eyes are void of perceptible expression, and the aforementioned eyes are piercing, penetrating any visible shadows with the attentiveness of a sentry.
Any approaching wolf with no nearby allies would most likely be hesitant to attack him. While he is no rearing brute with muscles heaving from his multi-colored hide, from a single look one could recognize him as a dangerous opponent. His hazel eyes would be quick to seek out weakness and detriment that could be advantageous to him, scheming eyes with cunning concealed in the ellipse of his iris; a powerful maw, housing teeth capable of crushing bone and canines extending to a length of 26 millimeters. These jaws are capable of 1,500 inches squared of force, and as was told, could easily break bone. From this regal skull, one would see a well-muscled neck, covered in a thick swath of fur as to protect his throat from potential tormentors so that, if he is grabbed about the neck, fangs will not immediately pierce the vulnerable flesh.
Wide shoulders and rippling limbs flow from his nape, well-suited to applying considerable pressure in whatever scenario he wishes to employ them it; be it in the impregnation of a female, or in the assault of a foe in a brawl of some sort. These strong fore-limbs stretch back into equally powerful hind-legs, able to propel him forwards like a momentarily airborne bird. As soon as he lands from this temporary flight, his muscular haunches will take the brunt of the shock, and these same haunches ripple with power in each long stride. From these haunches curls a vain flag of a tail, lifted for decoration but present as well to help the male keep his balance.
Despite his, perhaps to some, intimidating image, Ishmael is no wretch bent on nefarious actions or a vampire who flits about sating his thirst on blood and unbridled lust. Compassion contrasts with the prudent slyness of his eyes – eyes plagued by an affliction known as sectoral heterochromia, where the upper right section of his hazel iris is stained a startling electric blue – and gives him an almost mysterious face, though this mystery is squandered by his honesty. Only in grave situations will a deceitful bark come from the tongue of Ishmael, and even then he will belittle himself over the most diminutive of lies. He despises lying, and wolves that have been dishonest to him in the past have regret it; not because he went to them with violence and vehemence, but because he expresses his unhappiness with them, and perhaps even over exaggerates to make them feel all the more morose over their apparent folly.
His trustworthiness is also a hindrance. He tends to think the best of wolves, and is loath to call them liars or thieves or hateful beings; it is simply not his way. If ever you were to be spat at with venomous words by the likes of Ishmael, you must’ve committed a heinous sin against himself or another who he cares for, and will most likely never be lifted from your personal falling in his unforgiving eyes.
So, with the overview of Ishmael complete, we return to his current situation. Here he sits, tall and tense, ready with a multitude of reactions built in his steadily turning, intelligent mind. After a few moments of contemplation, he brings his proud head at a slight upwards tilt, peering closely at the moon, rising increment by increment into the darkening sky; and, as he watches, his steadily turning mind develops a steadily fluctuating contentment, and he brings forth from the bellows of his chest a howl. It is a beckoning, the soulful cry of a gray specter looking to be amongst those of his kind, a forest beast reaching forwards with want to be pulled into the fold of a pack. His song continues until his breath has departed, and he settles back, the erect folds of his ears upright to catch the smallest of sounds as he looks to the ash-covered, venerable land with an abrupt revelation and expression of reverence. Today, his mind croons blissfully to him in the lethargic whispers of a rippling pool, you will become one with your brethren, and prosper amongst the silver tails of their group.