| Onias
Onias had ranged a bit further from his den amongst the crags on this late winter's day, his paws itching for a bit of roaming and his tongue itching for a bit of conversation or a bit of charismatic conniving. Winter had always made him restless, moving to and from locations, but in this land it was more difficult. Many wolves crossed the same areas, back and forth, and they were protective of their own. He was an outsider, an interloper, and for now-- he was unwelcome. Noroi, the mimic, to his constant chagrin remained his only constant companion. The foxlike male found himself wishing that he had never left his old home after all, full of ritualists and mystics like himself as it was. He had been a hero and a savior there. Here, he was nothing.
His black-haloed nose twitched. There was a distinct tinge of sickness on the air-- Onias tilted his head as he pictured an old man crawling off somewhere to die. But the scent below the sickness was youthful, a wolf in the prime of its life, and the male grew quite curious as to what sickness had befallen this stranger. Perhaps he was cursed. The corners of his lips turned upwards in a smirk, and Onias adjusted his path to follow the peculiar scent trail of this wolf, fallen ill in its prime.
Onias trotted through the fields on nearly silent paws, his strides long and swift. He was not a tall man, but his legs were long and willowy, his features foxlike and quick. It was not long until he heard the raspy breathing of his quarry, and his ears pressed back against his skull at the sound of a hacking cough. The male grimaced, peering through the snow-covered grasses, his orange eyes finding the form of another male around his age determinedly making his way through. Onias could quite easily tell that this was the man he had been tracking simply from the uneven rise and fall of his sides, indicating lopsided breathing-- without, of course, the loud rasping coming from his throat.
"Excuse me," He called out as he trotted forwards, standing just a few feet behind the other male when he stopped. "But someone as sick as you should be resting, no?" Onias tilted his head, his eyes glittering with a mysterious sort of danger. The very sight of him seemed to be some sort of bad omen. The smell of herbs on his pelt, too, was wrong, as it was rare that any of the herbs he would use in his rituals had medicinal purposes.
If you ain't got money, it can't save your soul.
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