if you don’t mind, it don’t matter
Yes, yes They say. Go to the pack of fog and mist he must, for they must know, they must listen to his words. The gangly, disproportional male is given to amble with seemingly no direction at all, too long legs and oversized paws carrying his overly fluffy frame down lower and lower as he stumbles and blunders towards his destination, black and silver form near invisible in the shadows. He had wandered alone for some time now, Paws having been content to lead him all over Moladion in search of that which he cannot find, the male withdrawing from any and all in the loss of his imprint, the division within his soul seeming to pull and torment at his already strange mind until finally the longing and loss for She he cannot find seemed to have dulled and eased into the ache of a wound that will not heal. They say his soul will not find another, never again, no, never, never and until the day he is given to die he will not soothe the ache and longing within himself. Always it will linger, much like the sadness at his loss of his children. All are gone from this earth, just as Jaye and his Kismet. Dude does not question these things, he does not ask why, knows only that it is as They have desired and that is enough, though never will the silver of his gaze ever truly hold the light that perhaps they once did.
Paws are most hurried this day to carry him to this land of smoke and shadow and indeed They whisper to his Ears most fervently of that which he must say. He is old now, yes, many years he has lived and They say he must no longer be alone, They say he must come to this place though They do not always tell him why, as They did not the night he led all from the old lands, the night he saved so many and looked on as the world burned. He goes where he must, says what he must, speaking for They who have no words save for those that whisper to his ears and indeed, all who have listened have survived, all who have heeded his words have been given to prosper while those who ignored him fell. Perhaps he is mad, for many believe this is true, they believe him old and tired and crazed and yet perhaps, many more believe him to be a Prophet of sorts, his garbled words holding a sense for those who care to find it within. It matters not to Dude, they may call him anything they wish, words do not affect a creature so pure, one so free of judgement and hate, one who simply accepts all for who and what they are and it is within this manner that he pauses at the border or Iromar, large, over-sized paws resting against the line itself as his disproportional, stupidly fluffy frame is given to sit.
Always he has rested within the most troubled of packs, always he has sought to guide them as once he did Mirvois, standing for so long at the side of Lucian through times most great. Lurid had listened only to what she cared to hear and she had fallen as he warned, Hyperion in much the same way until Ruvindra and Raziel, both having heeded his words and seen greatness. Spirane is well and sound and needing not his presence, Glorall does not call to him and though he holds many friends with the Diveen Pack it is not to their sides he is called, not today. I is to Iromar the old male has come, an elder now perhaps, one of the last of the living legends who led the wolves from the flames though surely few will recognise him, few will know who he is or what he did that day and it matters not. They say he must come here, so he has, They say wait here, so he does. He makes no call, no sound as his silver gaze turns upward, lips moving as he mumbles to voices only he can hear. They say others will come. So he waits, lost within his own delusions.
DUDE
14 Years || No Mate || No Imprint || Hero of Old Moladion |