<font color=#a1987a><font color=black>imogen wolfy</font>how am I still alive?</font>

this place was full of happy go lucky puppies. It made him sick, sick to the very core of his being. Why on earth were they so happy? why did they all have to find him? it just wasn't fair. He put more time and effort into not being found out with it falling to utter ruines. He refused to take a home in one of the four packs that ranged through out this place, refused to take a mate because he figured it was just as useless. No one would listen to him when the time came and thusly he refused to allow anyone in. Even Ruvinda, who seemed just as noxious as himself and yet there was nothing there. Atleast that he would allow to happen. He didn't want to get hurt again. Still the flames burn in his white eyes, still the pain is seared into place, still the hatred mars what should be a handsome features.

Now, he is skinny, malnurished for the most part because of his loner-dom, he does not wish for help, does not seek asylum in someone's herd because he is in need. No! he refuses to see this as his fault "to bad it is Pal old buddy," a snarl laces through the air as the words leak into his ears. His eyes close on themselves, an adverse reaction to hearing the voices that fill his head on a regular basis. One would think he'd be used to it, but they have an odd affinity with creeping in when he least expects it and starting conversation wars with him. "You'd like to keep thinking that wouldn't you Oz" he says to the familiar voice of the man who tricked his mate into thinking he'd gone insane.

He hated Oz for that, for everything really, it was all Oz's fault in the end. "You wish Pal, that whole thing was your fault" his eyes flash open and his head shakes, he wont argue with Oz, not when the bastard is dead and burried under thirty feet of ash and dirt. No, he wasn't gonna let him get to him. They where all dead. His face is sour, it's always got that expression on it, a mixture of hurt, anger and sourness. More leaning towards hate and sour. He rarely shows the pain that actually floats through his heart and mind at the loss he's gone through. At six years old he wasn't an old dog, it felt like it though and he looked it. Skin strapped on tight to a tall skeleton frame. White fur hangs in patches, muddy and bloody from any meal he has managed to come across over the past season.

And if that wasn't enough, it seemed like ever single wolf he came across wanted to chat about their lover, their mate, their... imprint, he doesn't know what this is, an imprint just seems like another reason for him to hate life even more so than before. Love. His lips peel away, he hates love. Mushy, yuckie, disgusting, putrid thing that it was. "You love me don't you?" the female voice flows between his ears and for a moment he stops, his right paw held out slightly as if he was in mid stride, which he was, his eyes close and his nostrils flare ever so slightly as the skin around it wrinkles as he tries to remember a familiar smell. "I've always loved you," his voice is soft, breathy almost as he remembers the way her fur felt against his, the warmth of her breath and the soft chuckle of laughter that used to ring true. "But your dead too... all dead and gone" he says and as if it never happened he was walking again, through the landscape with a sour look on his face.

"talks like this"

Name:
Subject:
Message:

Password To Edit Post: