12-03-2011, 03:55 AM
The fates were not being kind to the old brute on the run. Nearly four years of travel had left the timber wolf in poor health, his skin hung off of him like a skeleton. Being a loner in this new and harsh world would leave many dead by now, but to Tristan, this was all he had known for years. Regardless of all this, or perhaps partially because of it, Tristan was defiant to his burgeoning depression. After years of wandering and hearing mention of this strange place from the lips of other canines he'd finally, finally got the gumption to travel to the lands known as 'Souls. The brute was determined to remain optimistic. 'Surely,' he thought, 'Surely lands sustaining so many packs will be abundant with food and opportunity.' At least, that was what he kept telling himself. Again. The fates had something against the multi-hued boy.
Snow had blanketed much of the land he traversed, leaving an eerie ghost town feel to the world. The frozen landscape was made even more dreary by nightfall, casting a shadow of lifelessness all around him. It seemed, to the silent brute, that the decayed flora were mocking him. Through his halved vision he could see before him the decimated lands that those in the know would call the Withered Realms. Tristan was not in the know. To him the lands simply screamed despair. All that travel, all those nights quivering in fear of his Brother, the loss of his lover, they seemed pointless now.
The beige wolf placed his rump on the ground, ignoring his body's creak of pain. Hopelessness crept over his fur, leaving behind a chill that no winter night could compare. His one good eye took in the burnt, frozen lands as the wind ruffled his thick, matted fur. Perhaps this was some poetic justice. Fate had deemed him unworthy, led him across continents, only to have him live and die in despair in lands that could no longer cry. Tristan found himself unable to whimper, unable to howl. He simply stared into the night, shivering and half-starved while his lack of faith wreaked havoc on his mind.
Snow had blanketed much of the land he traversed, leaving an eerie ghost town feel to the world. The frozen landscape was made even more dreary by nightfall, casting a shadow of lifelessness all around him. It seemed, to the silent brute, that the decayed flora were mocking him. Through his halved vision he could see before him the decimated lands that those in the know would call the Withered Realms. Tristan was not in the know. To him the lands simply screamed despair. All that travel, all those nights quivering in fear of his Brother, the loss of his lover, they seemed pointless now.
The beige wolf placed his rump on the ground, ignoring his body's creak of pain. Hopelessness crept over his fur, leaving behind a chill that no winter night could compare. His one good eye took in the burnt, frozen lands as the wind ruffled his thick, matted fur. Perhaps this was some poetic justice. Fate had deemed him unworthy, led him across continents, only to have him live and die in despair in lands that could no longer cry. Tristan found himself unable to whimper, unable to howl. He simply stared into the night, shivering and half-starved while his lack of faith wreaked havoc on his mind.