Grumbling, Lysander made his way across the west crater, once again on the lookout for possibly company. He didn’t even know why he was circulating this area, when it was both desolate and eerie. He’d been told of the cannibalism in this sector of their new world, and was disturbed by the fact wolves had become that deluded that they had begun to snack on their own species. Repulsed, the male continued his swift journey, midnight black fur spiked with the false sunshine. It pretended to be warm, yet was frigid to his body. It seemed even the weather in this area was confused. Bewildered, the baron came to a grinding halt as he spotted the movement of an ebony figure. It moved. Narrowing his cobalt voids, the male went to investigate the peculiar being, wary of anything such as attack. Edging closer, Lysander stopped a distance away. It was another wolf, such as he, but it was almost a reflection. Sniffing the air briefly, he detected that it was indeed a dove. Curiosity got the better of the man, placing his fleshy pads upon the hard, cracked land, thirsty for sadness and gloom. Well, it wouldn’t be starved of those needs, especially regarding the way this vixen behaved. “You shouldn’t be indulging in so much self-pity, it’s frowned upon.” came the throaty growl of his voice. Eyes dimming, the male approached, yet slid back upon his haunches a few metres away. “Lysander, but you can call me Lysander.” he exchanged his title, and then looked at her, studying for some explanation of whom she was.

Streaks of gold glinted in his eye as dusky fur billowed around his face, the land’s dust curling and becoming a hazy whirlpool in front of his eyes. Blinking rapidly as the powder settled once again, the male spoke once again. “Seen as you’ve lost your tongue, I wonder if you’re as new to this experience as me?” a grumpy voice was sent to assault her ears. The baron was blind in one eye, making it discoloured and milky. Three scars raked through the membrane, creating a rather gruesome effect, but at least he hadn’t lost the whole of his eye. Reminders of the day that he too, had lost a loved one. Despite this, he offered no consolation, mostly because he wasn’t aware of her situation, but mainly because he didn’t care. He had his own problems, and whilst they niggled at him, he wasn’t about to place the weight of somebody else’s troubles onto his own cargo of mistakes. Too much drama. Lysander wasn’t inclined to recreate his previous life, and instead would live a more senile life, showering others with his depressing thoughts and venomous tongue. It just happened that today was Tymeria’s turn.

7 YEARS• 33inch 100lbs• black fur