in case it isn't obvious, he's at the graveyard, and it's early morning. and he's in optime form. <3
He felt that the graveyard was far more genial when barely swathed in the rays of an early morning sun; though for the most part a thick canopy prevented the dismal little piece of land from gathering any light. The dog was not one to find fear in such a place- a dead thing could do little to him- but he did respect these humans, for whatever they had done. Indeed, if they had not been of such intelligent design, they could not have paved the way for the Luperci to come into power...not that Kvæsir was a Luperci by birth or choice, however. No, his infection was the result of his promiscuity, though the woman that had given him the wayward disease had been the first one that he had truly brought his lustful heart to love. He felt his heart still give an angry twinge at the thought of her, and he snorted beneath his breath, raising a white hand to absentmindedly finger the ends of his boyish tuft of bangs. Kæ felt that they gave him a bit of character, that and his faux-hawk, standing between his hanging ears. he looked much different in this form than a wolf, possibly because the virus had not been meant to leak to his kind anyway. Alas, there was little he could do.
For the first time in weeks, Kæ had adapted to his Optime form without the usual grudging sighs that came alongside it. Sitting cross-legged, his back against an unusually large tomb and within reaching distance of a smaller one, the black and white canine's muzzle was thrust between the yellowed pages of a rather old book, eyes sharp with concentration and the honey-brown pupils flickering in their sockets as he scanned the words that he had read so many times before. It was a collection of poems, some, he guessed, older than others, for the dialect and manners of speaking would vary, as would the four-number dates that would be inscribed at the top or bottom of each page. Some of them, too, had the lines of text grouped differently. but this was not an instructional book, it was merely an anthology, and so he had no way to learn the different types. A thought interrupted his reading momentarily- there was a library on the Valley's premises, and he would have to remember to ask someone where it was.
His favorite poem, in this section of the book at least, was one by a man named Edgar Allen Poe, entitled "From Childhood's Hour". Kvæsir had read the words over and over again the past few days; since his acceptance into Phoenix Valley he had not yet achieved a rank, and so was often left bored, left exploring or reading or practicing his magic tricks and recorder, two of the things that he found a great amount of success in. There was little doubt that he was musically gifted, and after reading about something called a lyre in a poem and the beautiful noises he could make, he had made it a point to look for one- but had yet to find anything that could produce anything even close to beautiful.
The majority of this morning- though much of the morning remained- had been spent simply examining his newfound pack's territories, and it was because of this that he had stumbled across such a solitary gem. The graves were withered, the souls long gone from the dead and the time-worn bones revealing themselves as the elements eroded the earth that covered them- cowled, and mute like stones. For some it might have been a place that they dare not travel for fear of upsetting the spirits or a god- but Kæ did not fear ghosts, and Kæ paid penance to no god- he was not some arrogant bastard that felt himself to be better than something like religion, but he had had questions, questions that the one that his mother prayed to could never answer.