[/html]Sterling and comatose, the moon hung in the sky for the duration of the day, watching as the sun rose but a few inches above the horizon before it plunged back hell-wards in a soft display of chalky crimson. Nestled amongst this twilight was the dull and handsome grey of Acheron Peak. The surrounding area was peculiar, being, in places, deeply frosty from the stabbing winter, but immediately melted, comfortably numb in the torrent of warmth from the modest volcano.
Having travelled here from the east most dregs of Concrete Jungle, a tall Spaher from Phoenix’s unit turned his grey-black eyes towards the volcanic peak. Indifferent was he towards the childish concept of climbing the mountain in order to spot churns and swirls of lava. Instead he sat with his back to a leaning elm tree, far away from Acheron’s bouquet of sulphur, drawing one knee up and letting the other long, jeans-clad leg be lapped at by the baying river. Tamerlane gazed into the water. His dramatic life as a traveller had been so demanding and sweeping that minor topics would go ignored, but in the more modest life of a Storm wolf, each thought was given quandary, and it was on such thoughts that he dwelled as he watched the river flow forever onwards.
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