I'm beginning to feel like a Dungeon Dragon -Tesseract/Caligula/any-

soul bound to none | heart captured by none | warrior of nowhere | no children | loner

Jagger was currently on the border with the pack land, careful not to actually enter the land, curiosity having overwhelmed her when she found out it bordered the sea. She had always been drawn to it, as if she was a sea nymph in a past life that got separated from her home, never managing to make it back before she died. Or maybe she simply loved it for its tempests. They were fierce things; full of roiling water and sharp rain, salt-stung wind that whipped and howled. Thunder that shook sky and lightning that illuminated the earth like mini supernovas. Sometimes it seemed like storms were living things, the wind their breath; the thunder their words. She loved the smell of the ocean, all electricity and salt and rain. It made her feel alive, like a shot of adrenalin to the jugular. Since it was winter, the smells and feels and storms had an extra bite to them, enhanced by the cold. But the cold didn't stop her from frolicking though.

Dark clouds were gathering in the sky, turning the world overcast and the water a navy blue, capped with foamy white as the waves churned and churned, mixing the with winds. A lone black figure played among them, leaping and jumping and playing chicken with the riptides. Her fur as well was black, though a few shades lighter than the night and without any markings to speak of. Simply black, simply monochromatic. Her eyes were a shocking, even arresting, shade of blue. Electric in color, the cyan orbs stood out against her shadowed coat like bio luminescent creatures do in the deepest depths of ocean. She is muscled, that much is obvious, but they are lean and strong, not bulky and hindering. She was large for a female and a superb fighter as well though she might not always display much of it on the outside. A chunk of one of her ears was missing, and though the only scars that usually showed through her lush fur were the ones on her back legs: the pink, jagged tooth marks of an alligator creature who latched on and tried to rend the limb from her body; now that she was wet, all the water and wind buffeting her form, others were visible, the fur that hid them pushed back. Pink lines, some thin, some thick, littered her frame, speaking of old battles and injuries. She wore her collection of scars like merit badges, taking pride in them as one might take pride in a winning medal.

She was in this place for a myriad of reasons. One, because she wanted to visit the sea, and two, to see the Glorall packlands. Just because she was a nomad did not mean she was against packs, but she simply hadn't found one that could hold her. She'd tried to settle down a few times -she was an honorary Amazon in many lands- but even then, surrounded by her kin of woman warriors, she always felt the tug of wanderlust urging her on, away from her friends. It didn't bother her though; she always made a point to go back and visit the friends she made during her travels, no matter how far they'd gotten. Maybe Moladion would be different. Maybe she'd find something to tie her to this land, maybe even find a pack that she'd stay with. To do that, though, she'd have to be a warrior. She couldn't just sit around hunt and look after pups or something. She was a brawler, she was a fighter. She couldn't sit idly by when she could be on the frontlines or training the recruits. She felt a compulsion to be in the battle, if only to have her friends' backs. She wouldn't be home, pacing and worrying when she could be fighting and protecting.
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