Once this place used to hold the yin and yang scenery of Blossom Field. Now, there are miles of winding tundra. To the north, this tundra is cruel and dry, with wisping weaves of tall grasses. The ground is cracked and cold, and it hardly is ever moistened by dearly desired rainfall. To the south, the tundra becomes more prosperous - meadows of flowers and herbs grace the ground. Part of this connects near Elebeam Weargtreow - however it is an impassible field of poppy, which will put any wolf trying to cross it into a deep slumber, and eventually die.

Those looking to hunt here will find mice, snakes, and rabbits, along with pronghorns, bison, and javalinas.




He didn’t want to head back to Malignant. The reason for such happened to be a pupetteer who thought she was the hottest shit around. If Romulus had still had eyes, they would have rolled practically into the back of his head. That girl was something else. A spitfire he would’ve pursued earlier in life. Perhaps he and her would’ve had flings back when he was a teenager. Romulus tilted his head, entertaining the idea of sexual interaction with the girl. Definitely would be a new experience. But the thought of embracing another woman had his heart shutting doors of iron immediately. No. Well… the kalak smirked without humor. He supposed so long as he didn’t fall in love, interactions with females could be allowed. But the thought still made him want to puke. He’d promised. Promised that he would take Eriel seriously. But did that promise still hold true when he was exiled from his place of birth and no longer knowledgable of whether or not Eriel was even alive? This train of thought made his heart sink. He didn’t want to. He didn’t even want to be himself anymore. Not that he’d wanted to be “Romulus” in the first place. It wasn’t the name. It was his breeding. It was his history. It was him. He wanted to be a regular varg. One that didn’t tower above others.

Romulus flicked his plumage. He was on his way back to Malignant after having wasted the day away at the lake with some woman who approached him for god knows what reason. The soil beneath him now was supple… but he could almost feel the death coming to the flowers like a plague. Fall was approaching quietly and slowly, ready to pounce on its weakened prey. These blossoms wouldn’t last for much longer. Not that Romulus cared. The psycho couldn’t see them anyway so it didn’t particularly hold his interest… but for some reason his heartstrings still decided to feel sour about it. A year would’ve passed since Sophie’s untimely death this winter. And that meant that the world had been able to survive without such a gentle soul in its midst. How cruel and foul. No. He wouldn’t have minded if a terrifying asteroid decided to plant itself right on the top of blossom. Or if a true plague itself soaked its way into everyones lungs, dying them yellow and black with sickness. He wouldn’t have minded dying this year. Not knowing where Eriel was or if she too was a part of the earth now…. Well that made the brujo even less willed to move his feet. So he stopped and breathed in and out multiple times. Romulus was breaking. His time was ticking away through the neck of the hour glass. If someone didn’t add sand to that timer… he wasn’t going to make it through this winter either. A weak willed wolf is the one that dies first.

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