<font color=#a1987a><font color=white>SOL WOLF ONLY</font> how am I still alive?</font>

the feathers slide against the white fur of his cheek as he looks down from the top of the ridge, from his grassy view point Paldor could see just about all of the crater than he could ever have wished to see. The sky above was clear blue as it showed the world just what a wonderful day could look like, above Paldor's head was the constant gray cloud soaking his entire body from morning to night, it didn't matter if butterflies were floating from flower to flower, or that a rainbow had just brought it's brilliance across the sky to dazzle all those would be lovers with their beloveds.. the whole thing just made Paldor want to barf in his throat. A snort leaves his nostrils as those pale blue eyes closed breifly. A soft wind rustles his topline, pulls the hairs forward and allows them to bend slightly before falling back down only ruffled slightly.

With each breath he slows down his thoughts, slows down life in general as he tries to remember, to remember the cold hard truth of the fire as it blasted through his home land. The pack was distroyed, the smell of burning flesh, bark and other debris still tickles his nostrils to this day, a phantom smell that will never leave him alone. He remembers all to well the cries of the women and men alike, the pups as they tried to flee but couldn't. No one knew what was going to hit them but Paldor and those fools hadn't listened to him. "Fools.... the lot of them" his voice is deep, baritones that should sound like honey but have been defiled by years of solitude, they are rusty, corrosive and acidic.

As he speaks his eyes flash to life, to a normal wolf, any wolf here he would appear blind. He would appear to be so useless that none of them would ask for his help, no one would deem him useful as a mate or a leader. He wouldn't have to answer to anyone but the wind and the moon. His white paws, tarnished with years of muddy travel; gloom and doom is every where he looks, he doesn't see bright eye bushy tailed females all hungry for adventure. He see's only death, decay and distruction in the paths he leaves behind him. Down this path he takes he feels branches pull at his thick white pelt, not yet had summer stollen his fluff, no he'd spent to much time in the mountains for it to leave him just yet. So he melts as the spring sunshine beats down on him, bringing to life the buds of dormant winter, the grasses that feed the doe's and their young, the boars and bisson alike.

It's not until he finds himself next to a river, his face is caked in dirt both dried and still wet, blood from his last meal has attached it's self to his lips and the tops of his feet, he wreaks of several days without a bath or even a proper female to clean him. All things he would rather do without. Like a tired gypsy he sits down and looks, watches rather the waters move smoothly over rocks and weeds alike. He wonders if he can remain in his solitude here, if he can keep away from the temptations of the flesh, relieve himself of the burden of a family and loved ones. He's done it for this long already, but places have a way of stealing things from you, like your soul, your life, your heart. How long would it take before this place consumed him, either alive or dead?

"talks like this"

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