Lysander kicked the shingle, briskly uprooting it with his fleshy paw pads as the baron headed through the desolate lands. It’d been a while since he’d last arrived here, at least, when it was intact. His mate and son had suffered at the strike of the meteor, blinding him with the impact. He’d always believed that she was his imprint. Others had told him different. And whilst he wouldn’t come to terms with the fact that she’d lain there, fur grimy and eyes dead, lifeless. It’d overwhelmed him with grief, and upon that encounter, he’d vowed never to fall into such a trap again. Love always came and bit him when he least expected it, driving those fangs into his muscle, twisting and making the pain unbearable. It’d been different towards his son. A more melancholy love. He’d never been a man of most words, built with monotonous colours, but he’d definitely swelled with pride upon his pup’s achievements. Never one to voice such opinions, he’d obscured these, pocketing those memories somewhere in his dark mind. They were there to show him of a life he could’ve had. To taunt and torment his mind, making him hallucinate dangerously, and for his heart to shatter once rebuilt. It’d never been easy. Even when love had appeared to be a false friend, taking his hand and leading him into oblivion. A world he’d thought he could trust. Until fate once again snatched away such ludicrous happiness, replacing it with the same gloomy thoughts and repeatable actions. Grieve, eat, sleep, drink, grieve some more. The meteor had indeed knocked his more clearer thoughts, and he found some slots hazy and unfocused, like he couldn’t really pinpoint the actual event and was instead creating a brighter experience. But life was cruel, and always had beat Lysander with a iron stick, tugging on his emotions when he least expected and then messing with his head.

With a glower, the male scaled the hillside quicker, desperate to take this occasion from his mind and create a more calmer aura. Lysander didn’t like to dwell on his past, and it’d always make his jaw lock with fury. A low grumble came from his hoarse throat, reminding him that he was stronger now. Ready to brave this vindictive world. One way or another, he would appear on top. Victorious. Or at least, it replayed in his mind. Of a time when he would become the ‘top dog’ and everybody would bow down to him like he thought they should. But it wasn’t the right time now. No. He had to make acquaintances in this area, rekindle old memories and create another life. A new identity. Today was that day.

7 YEARS• 33inch 100lbs• black fur