There was a sensation the filled the boy that could have been easily recognized as apathy. This feeling held a perceptible air, almost thick enough to be cut with a knife as some might have described the fog that resided in the valley on early winter mornings. Anyone near the brute could come the same conclusion as his neighbor, this poor boy has been through a lot… It’s terrible to see such a young soul so lost… At least that’s what many had said of him before but Sin couldn’t remember. Had his puphood been a wondrous expanse of giggles and playing? Or as most might think, had he been abused and violated from an early age? But the white ghoul couldn’t say. Any conceptions of his past stemmed from the conjured images he would have liked to imagine and the horrid dreams that consumed him in his sleep. Sin liked to imagine his parents, who would have been elders by this time in his life, as strong, gallant and caring souls. But after looking at himself, he often wondered how two happy lives could create the equivalent in depression?

Now there was something to be said about this waning sense of trust in the colorless ghoul. It had made him wary to many of the same mistakes his fellow species had made, but in that same sense he had missed out on the opportunities that most wolves only got through trial and error. Most importantly being love and a sense of belonging. If there was ONE thing Sin didn’t have, it was a sense of camaraderie between himself and fellow wolves, male or female. That was a feeling that the white wolf wanted to partake in, but could never bring himself to actually do. The thought of conversation often scared him, anything he was able to say could be used a weapon. This thought process had slowly but surely developed Sin into the hermit of a wolf that he is. It was myth that he had lost his voice, but with the select amount of words he’d spoken since washing up on the shore of The Island of the Lost, it could be brought into question whether he actually still had the capacity to talk. Sometimes the ghost had to talk to himself so he wasn’t consumed by the silence or worse yet—believe he had lost the ability to talk.

Sin hadn’t wandered far from the shoreline. He’d washed only a week or so ago, but he’d been to scared to leave the common ground. His white paws were a off colour now with the tiny little sand grains embedded in his pelt. His muscles ached from the long walks up and down the beach, and his vocal chords were hoarse from his lack of communication. He padded quietly down the fore stretch of the beach where he had first come to the island. He nodded politely at the ocean waves lapping at his feet, Glad to see that something enjoys my company… Sin’s voice was a deep melodic sound slightly roughened from its lack of use. Even sadder was that he continued to refer to the ocean as his only friend… He had made no efforts to join in with other the few other wolves about, let alone another species entirely. For being of age, the ghost was a frightened one.