01-26-2011, 11:54 PM
Pain. Hurt. It was relentless. His heart throbbed -- no, burned. It was charred and unrecognizable. It was in ruins. It had gone up in flames when his mother had been killed, then his brothers, and, next, his father, in perfect precision. His heart was in ruins, but it had survived. But, when his mate was killed as well, and he was cast out of his beloved pack, his heart was consumed ever-so-quickly again, by the merciless embers in his chest. It had ignited within seconds, and engulfed his whole heart -- And this time, his heart didn't survive. The flames ate at him until there was no longer any of him left. There was no quenching these flames. It was out of control -- a wild fire. And so he carried on, the fire lapping at the burnt, sore, raw edges of what remained as his heart.
He never stopped thinking about those horrid murders, and thus, the fire never extinguished. It fed off of his remorse, living off of his hate and fear. His hurt was its fuel. Toklo never complained, but he never told anyone that he was fine. That would be a lie. It was not that he wouldn't tell them he was OK, it was also the fact that he had nobody to tell. Usually, as soon as other canines of any sort saw him, they turned and started in the other direction in a full-out sprint. Not that he blamed them. He wasn't exactly a social wolf...any more. He hadn't had a true friend since he'd been ousted from his pack, and that seemed like ages ago.
Toklo's paws dropped as heavy as a brick, almost in defeat. But, he told himself it was just him tiring. So, he laid down. He dropped to the ground right where he was -- in the middle of the forest. Usually, he never did this, but it was an exceptional day. He'd just run a rounded twenty miles. In his Lupus form. His breath fogged in front of his face and caught on his whiskers. His eyes were heavy and already drooping, but he knew he couldn't sleep here. He would't! But, he could feel his will slipping away, and his eyes closing slowly as he fell away from consiousness and into the deep, dark, black hole of sleep. He was comatose.
He never stopped thinking about those horrid murders, and thus, the fire never extinguished. It fed off of his remorse, living off of his hate and fear. His hurt was its fuel. Toklo never complained, but he never told anyone that he was fine. That would be a lie. It was not that he wouldn't tell them he was OK, it was also the fact that he had nobody to tell. Usually, as soon as other canines of any sort saw him, they turned and started in the other direction in a full-out sprint. Not that he blamed them. He wasn't exactly a social wolf...any more. He hadn't had a true friend since he'd been ousted from his pack, and that seemed like ages ago.
Toklo's paws dropped as heavy as a brick, almost in defeat. But, he told himself it was just him tiring. So, he laid down. He dropped to the ground right where he was -- in the middle of the forest. Usually, he never did this, but it was an exceptional day. He'd just run a rounded twenty miles. In his Lupus form. His breath fogged in front of his face and caught on his whiskers. His eyes were heavy and already drooping, but he knew he couldn't sleep here. He would't! But, he could feel his will slipping away, and his eyes closing slowly as he fell away from consiousness and into the deep, dark, black hole of sleep. He was comatose.