Fritjof moved over the pine needles with the air of a soldier, weary yet determined. The birds call warnings in their treetops, the sad songs of those stuck out in the cold. Fritjof knows that story plain enough, having subsisted on field mice and game that could be caught solo for far too long. With all the past troubles packs have given him, he knows it is time to find a new one, though his blood curdles at the thought of the betrayals and mind games. The anger he still felt caught him a bit off guard, and lent a briskness to his step that might otherwise be lacking despite the cold.
In his short five years he had already had two packs. In one his lover had used him to her own means and then disposed of him, like so much garbage. In his second the tension had started as an uprising among a few other wolves and he had fallen as the scapegoat. His lip curled into a glimmering snarl remembering the disgrace and irony. He had been the whistle blower for the rebels, but had ended up taking the fall. A masterful rendition by the underlings as one more power play. He kept plodding, head down. His only real problem was knowing how to start over. How to yet again find a new pack, and which one to go to.
As the sun is falling it brushes against the fur on his back, his dark guard hairs standing out along his body to hold in the body heat. His small, thin frame might not make an impressive picture, but every inch is lean muscle. His eyes are striking, with the green flecks set in amber as gold as pine pitch, though they are often overlooked in favor of the more unusual colors. Fritjof wishes for a warm safe den, even one filled with figurative snakes, as his last ones were. Though his fur keeps hhim warm and usually dry, there is no substitute for the safety from a group of animals, to fight, to flee and socially. Perhaps intelligent conversation is what he misses most. Even beyond hunting something that was not a mouse.
He pauses at an overlook, uncertain which way to go. His eyes cast over the darkening orange sky, wondering if there is someone else to follow, since he is so tired of trying to do for himself, on his own. But for now, he is all he has. He resists the urge to cry out, against injustice, indignity, and cruelty in a long drawn out hall, thinking better of it due to not wantint to fight off a predator more deperate than him, so he waits for a sign. |