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[Skoll]

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Here we go, sorry we had to wait until now to do this. Approaching the summit of his old hill, he looked out over the Storm territory as he had always done, surveying the wide swath of land his high vantage point made visible to him. He had chosen well, so long ago, to dig his shallow den here. Unlike some of his species, he never slept in the thing, digging a den that large would have taken a lot more time and effort, and the tiny one he had suited his needs. His possessions--he had accrued a few during his stay--had a place to rest safe from the elements. Rain, in particular, would ruin his books and rust his weapons. It might also damage his tiny carvings, such as they were, though he was unsure. Thinking back to those old books, the bronze wolf was somewhat surprised to think that he still had them. He had never learned to read properly, and despite the occasional lesson he picked up from a stranger, he still couldn't decipher the symbols well enough to functionally read. Laying himself down on his belly, he rested his one-eared head on his forepaws. He didn't spend all that much time on four legs any more. Ever since Maria had taught him how to use a bow, he had been hunting on two legs (though it still took him a ridiculously long time to catch anything, he was not yet a really competent shot), meaning that he had virtually no reason to use his wolf-form nowadays, since his badly-healed stomach wound made running uncomfortable. Still, there was some comfort in it. He felt powerful in were-form, he felt capable and dangerous, but there was still a part of him somewhere deep that valued the instinctual familiarity of the four-legged form, and remembered his days of romping around the barren landscape as a child. He wasn't in touch with that part of himself most of the time, looking back was almost always painful, but sometimes it could pay off, on the off-chance that he could look back far enough and focus in to only those moments which were worth remembering, and none of the periphery. The day was wearing on, and night was four or five hours away. He had done his exercises and practice, eaten a meal and washed the dirt from the failed arrows and the blood from the one which had struck home, worked a little further on one of his carvings, and now he was content to just lay down and relax. He wasn't considered a spaher or wahrer any more, probably until the rest of the pack got used to him again, so he could rest easy. ~The lyrics are from the best song ever written.

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