The cream-colored wolfdog padded noisily through the woodland, shoulders knocking into leafy bushes and paws stepping on dry twigs. He had no desire to conceal himself, anyway; the expression of tired rage on his face made his inward turmoil evident, and running into someone for yet another little scrap would only serve as an outlet for those emotions. The only logical thought at the back of his mind was that he should maybe decide to head home soon, but there was nothing but death waiting back home, so he put off that decision—for another few hours at least.
Right now, Skoll marched onward stupidly: without vigilance or care, without even a destination in mind. His spirit was a vessel for little more than grief, and that grief was like water sloshing in the hollow of his body, weighing down his legs and belly. It made him heavy and sluggish, and there was little urgency even when the pungent scent of marshland and honeysuckle reached him: combined with the sharp tinge of salt and coyote, something that marked pack lands even if the general smell of the turf did not.
The odor grew stronger as the boy drifted further to his left, and suddenly he caught a glimpse of white shapes through the trees: blobs against bark that took form as long-muzzled skulls. Bright green eyes grew wide as twin suns, and he nearly trembled as he stepped a little closer. Fear, revulsion, and budding anger swarmed within him as he looked at the gruesome display. He wasn’t sure what to think, what story was behind these mounted canines, and he found himself really incapable thought. All he could do was stare, a tiny growl of protest working up in his throat. Regardless of if the skulls belonged to innocent victims, prisoners of war, or even the sacred dead of those in the pack, it was morbid and it was another example of how the world wasn’t like those in the storybooks.
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