Twenty. He laughs at it, at the absurdity of it. How old was Ajax? Vidar? Elric? How old was his own mother when she was returned to the earth? Yet there he is, two decades deep into a life he had come to barely deserve. He laughs but he makes no effort to absolve the issue either way - he had tried, after all, and it had simply resulted in what he had expected: his family had been split apart, his home had been taken and he had been reminded of the shadow that clung to his very soul. So, he simply continues forward, drifting.
He moves through the stone kingdom of the grotto and crags; prey was scarce though he seldom feels true hunger even now. His fur is still as pure as snow and yet, it clings strangely to his scarred body; there are breaks revealing the punctures and slashes of the past, a thinness across his ruff where too many teeth had been; there is a dullness to his eyes despite their intense stare. He feels every year of his life, so much so that his lip is nearly constantly turned up into an amused smirk. To live such a long life...it is almost too funny for him to accept. Him of all wolves.
His nose is low to the ground as he prowls after the scent of death - an old kill, perhaps, but food nonetheless. He seeks to eat if only to prolong the punchline that is his life but rather than meat, dead and delicious, he finds meat that speaks in tongues at the sky. He pauses at his discovery, staring at the back of a stranger only dimly lit by the stars and moon, before he snorts. Of course he wasn't able to find the one thing he wanted to find. He speaks only because he cannot help but wonder what joke his life has brought him to this time.