iClaim! 
I guess I'll bleed in silence
He had no clue, really, why he was out again. War waged. The forests behind Halcyon Mountain stank of rot and decay. Lubomir had paced the borders of Shadowed Sun so much he had grown tired of the moss, the leaves, the smell of damp earth. He needed out. He remembered how Tristan had woken him in that blazing inferno, saving his life without knowing it. Sometimes, in the depths of his misery, he could see that such a death would be a condign end to his poor pathetic life.
But the sea... Ah, the sea, so glorious and restless, he longed for the feel of salt on his wounds, for the sand under his paws. He didn't know what to do, what to say to Skoll or Tayui any longer. His wounds ached, his recovery was slow and painful and most nights he would simply lie awake and tremble, shake, quiver with fear. He had given his word. And he could no longer take it back. Soon, his feet crunched the gravel and he could smell strangers. They smelled neither of Dahlia, nor of Inferni, Labyrinth Glen or Twilight Vale. Were they loners? Would they dare live out the war as such? Achingly, Lubomir shuffled through the city. Humans. They destroyed. They created. They killed and maimed and incinerated, but they also loved, showed gentleness and preserved wisdom. In the Old Country, such a city would be populated. Here, it lay in ruins.
Soon, all too soon, Lubomir grew tired and he longed for the safety of his pack. In this state, what could he do? What support could he be? He would be felled by a coyote at first sight. No one would be any wiser until it was too late. He cursed his lack of sleep. Was there a need for such alertness? No. There wasn't. But never before had he felt so trapped, so wounded, like a caged beast, like those the humans kept for shows, trained, docile, broken wolves who must have cursed every day when they woke up, who swore to Fenrir for revenge, who hoped one day to kill those who wielded the whip.
Lubomir had caught the scent of fresh shifter and followed it through sheer idleness. What point was there in going back? To find what? His pack, blissfully asleep? No. He might, in due time, go back, take a book and immerse himself in its pages. It would be a bittersweet comfort, such an escape, but it would be better than nothing at all. He paused and hovered in the door frame. He could see the other reading. One who seemed so literate, to alienate himself like that... What could Lubomir say to him? Had he not said enough?
'I hope that book is worth the dust you inhale here.' His voice, to his ears, sounded flat and dead. Like himself. Broken, shattered, left unhinged. Lubomir had been such a balanced individual. Had the war truly shaped him this way?
