Ajani
Asteraia
He stands at attention on the edge of the packland’s fields, poised with dinner plate feet kept close together as he perched on a rocky crag jutting up from a sea of grasses. It was similar to home here, half desert sand and rock and half flowing grasses. Serengeti. Savannah. That is what this felt like - save for the growing bitterness of the cold.
He would fit here, he thinks, better than the world of sand and lean wolves who had no coats to speak of. Why he was so much larger, so much heavier pelted, so much thicker coated, he would never understand. Why he was so different than all of his relations, leaving him a freak of nature, he might never come to know. But he lives it. He lives it with pride and the determined confidence of one who fears little and knows much. He is not so young as some might claim a wolf’s prime would be at, but he is youthful in vigor and virility.
He waits, scanning the horizon, looking for where a greeting party might originate from. Those grasses, that undergrowth, that craggy rock in the distance that was trying so hard to mimic the one beneath his forepaws.
There was a safety in numbers that he sought now, a protection that came from wolves of equal caliber to himself banding together. He is determined that such banding together be his to take advantage of as well. The thunder of bison on the horizon makes him lift his head and look out, only to find a dark-pointed female instead of stampeding herbivores.
Not that there weren’t bison charging across the plains, only that this female was far more interesting in that moment than a full belly thought of prey. He lets up a soft call to her, a ‘Hello, I am here’, so to speak, and looks down to her again, watching and waiting to see what it is she will do when she notices him on the rise of a hill and atop a jutting rock.
male · eleven · 40in · 184 lbs · no heart’s treasure · no soul’s temple