All through his life, Scion has been a citizen of a twisted society. His every action was carefully controlled, manipulated seamlessly by a cruel puppeteers for the purpose of their own gain. He was nothing but a cursed marionette to them, a traitor by blood whose very existence was expendable. He, like all young born into his family, was segregated from the rest of his relatives and treated as scum from the very moment he no longer needed his dam's milk to survive. The sins of the previous generation were borne upon the backs of their children, who were shunted into a lower caste at birth as a vicious form of debt repayment. From the very first time that Scion's delicate, fluttering eyelids peeled back to reveal a sharp pair of sober emerald eyes, he was a slave to the clan that his parents had tried to dethrone. Not long after, immediately upon reaching acceptable weaning age, the wiry youth was taken to a communal den for the young ones of his defeated clan. His childhood is was far from easy, to the extent that it was with a sense of relieved resignation that he went into specific training for military service. He knew that he would one day likely die in defense of a brutal system, but his conditioning allowed him to discard all doubts before they even came to mind.

He was not allowed to have an opinion. He didn't even have a proper name, merely bearing the title of “Scion” as did all of the descendents of his judas clan. He was taught to kill, to bleed, and to die. It was his job to accept everything. The world was a dark place, but he had grown up within the confines of that reality. His entire existence was marked by the rules of obedience and service, and he had complied quietly, living his life subserviently within those confines, until his world had been shattered but a few pain-filled months ago.

The iron-hued male had never inquired as to how his fellow in service had acquired the new ideas that he now was spouting with the authority and zeal of an evangelist. The other male spoke of freedom, equality, and justice, words that Scion had never been exposed to. He was foolish, and achingly naive, so soon he, like many others of his caste, had allowed themselves to be drawn into the disastrous revolution. At the time, Scion had advanced in the military system of the ruling pack. After proving himself valiantly on a near suicide mission, he had been granted a promotion, and now guarded the princess of his overlords. She was young, barely older than a pup, and was a central pawn in the plans of the revolution, as was he, as her guard. Scion was assured that she would not be harmed; all he had to do was bring her to a chosen meeting spot a certain time. He obeyed the order from the leader of the coup, asking the innocent, trusting princess to accompany him on a stroll. She did so without question, of course, and although his conscience squirmed, he deferred the mind numbing guilt, reminding himself that she would be safe.

He had never been more wrong.

The situation had become tense before his arrival. Foolish, trusting Scion had promised himself and his charge that it was safe, but before he knew it, the string of control holding the group to its original plan snapped. A mob set upon the leader's delicate daughter, who to the slaves seemed a symbol of tyranny. Scion tried futilely to defend the small maiden, killing several of his brethren in the process. Her life was ripped away within minutes of the struggle's origination. Before he knew it, Scion had also become a target. He did not want to kill his comrades. Hell, he hadn't wanted to kill anyone. If he had been thinking clearly at the time, he would allowed himself to perish in battle, giving himself some possibility from recovering any of the shreds of tattered honor that he may have once possessed. However, as the battle raged, the higher end of his thought departed, leaving him an empty shell of adrenaline. Cowardice mingled with ancient instinct, overwhelming the sanctuary of his conscious in a repeating torrent of Run! Run! Run! . He was reduced to a creature on autopilot, and tore free of the fray as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He didn't want to die.

Now here he was, months later, a pathetic, sad dog of a wolf. If it was possible to be dishonorably discharged from the life as lowest of the low, he had been. Scion's views, on both himself and the world around him, had been permanently skewed by his dismal life as a slave. He lived to serve, and now that he had been removed from his post, the weary catacombs of his mind endlessly suggested that the only way to atone for his wrongs was to die. He had almost succeeded in perishing from a divine cocktail of exposure, injury and exhaustion before an unlikely heroine had stumbled across his path. The boy still wondered what she would want of him in return for her service that day, and resolved to repay the debt next time he met with her, no matter what she requested of him. A life was still a life, and whatever the quality of that life, saving it was still something that must be rewarded.

For now, the rescue had provided ample excuse for his cowardice to prevent him from actively dispatching himself, although it did nothing to alleviate his sense of self loathing. He had been stripped entirely of purpose, and no longer cared what happened to his physical body, as long as his soul burned in hell forever after. He walked without any urgency amongst the free lands, a phantom without fear displaced and disowned by all that he had ever valued.

Scion was nothing.

Time was beginning to blank for him, long stretches disappearing in a phenomenon akin to highway hypnosis as he lived his day to day life. He existed in a constantly alternating state of terror and despair, with stints of horrifying boredom interrupting the haze in disrupting and not at all peaceful intervals. He performed biological functions necessary for his continued survival mechanically, eating, sleeping and drinking on a schedule like clockwork. The monotony was not a reprieve, as it allowed his mind to stray, inevitably furthering his progression in the spiral of depression that he had fallen so deeply into.

At first, the damned hellion had no particular goal as he made his way to the borders of Bright Moon. He was driven by equal parts desperation and mindlessness. But before he knew it, his slightly cracked pads had been taking him steadily toward the scent of community for hours, to what end he knew not. At first, it was just a vague whim that dragged his thin, war torn frame inexorably forward, but even though he remained mute and silent, the bot was slowly coming back to some semblance of sanity as he pondered the possible repercussions of his incubating plan. Scion knew that his recent deeds proved him unworthy to be trusted in a pack, but the drive of companionship was impossible to resist. The iron sir decided to allow himself, the weak pathetic creature that he had become, a single selfishness: a chance to atone. He would dedicate himself to the service of whatever lord ruled in the lands that he had come to, be he tyrant or sage.

Scion had given up his right to choose what can be defined as right in this world the moment he had gotten himself involved in his bad fool's crusade.

The grim insanity that he had retreated into faded away as the body walked the last few minutes to the border. He continued forward gracefully, his years of training allowing him to march with the idle stride of a killer, even in his slightly decayed state. He clung to the idea of future duty and atonement like a lifeline, allowing it to anchor him and prevent his battered psyche from being swept underneath the rushing Styx of his inner torment. The ghosts of the past could not be so easily banished, but he chose to ignore them for now, instead focusing on moderating his lost expression into one of careful control. There would be no going back now.

The scent of the border, covered over in the thick musk of an alpha male and patrolled by several warriors, was an unmistakable barrier. The hessian brought himself to a complete stop a few respectful feet from the line and prepared to wait until a member of the lands deigned to welcome his lost soul. His stance was a blank slate, holding no aggression or submission for now, though that would change as soon as his elite auditory and olfactory systems recognized the approach of another pack wolf, at which point he would hunch in on himself, lowering his brilliant emerald gems to gaze at the forest floor and tensing his shoulders instinctively, preparing to be targeted out of habit alone.