THE CURSED PRINCE OF
DEATH
He had been alone for a while now since leaving his clan. He liked the freedom of being a vagrant that moves with the changing of the wind but there was a burning in his belly for something more. It was not to take a mate and have offspring, as most males felt around this dreadful season. His yearning was far more intricate and… visceral to his being than just sowing his seed. He craved the chaos that came with the rise and falls of kingdoms and leaders. If anything, it was the only thing he missed from his days among his kind. There had been whisperings upon the winter wind as he travelled like a wraith through the land; stories of broken trust and bloodshed. A breeding ground for his favorite sin.
He sought after details in this gossip, hiding in the shadows as he overheard things here and there, until he got the name of the accused. Iromar. The name held such promise for him, a dark note overlaying the word that was given to the southern moorland territory. With a wicked eagerness in his step he followed well worn trails to the south of Moladion until he hit a large river. The rising mountain to the west told him that the moorland should be somewhere toward the east and so he followed the body of water in that direction.
Large paws jogged slowly along the high banks of the river for a while before it began to widen and spread into veins that fed into a mire. Despite it being near to the end of winter, there was still a plentiful amount of snow to coat the cold marshes. He stopped for a moment before moving to descend the banks toward more level ground atop the frozen muck. If he were to find any Iromanian wolf they would surely be near to this location; especially with their alliances hanging in the balance.
(This post went downhill quality-wise as I got distracted >o<)