04-27-2008, 05:26 AM
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date of birth: June 25th, 2002.
wolf or luperci?: He is a Luperci.
gender: Male.
email address: axel at dyingembers.net; axelriot at gmail.com.
AIM: double oh pyro. …
Ain't that always the way. You turn your back on a place for five minutes, and it goes up in flames.
Shakadyn surveyed the ruins of his kingdom. Not forlornly, as might be expected; instead, he opted for disdain. He'd missed out on all of the excitement. He'd taken his usual route, anticipating things to be the same as always, but the moment he'd caught the scent of smoke and death, he'd known he was in for it. Now, here he was, on the high, conspicuous rock that he favored for its dramatic entrance potential, able to engage each of his senses in the disaster - seeing Hell, smelling fear, feeling absence, tasting heat, and hearing silence. What he'd guessed? A bonfire involving coyotes and their unfortunate opponents. What he got? Well, it was either a mass political upheaval, or a wildfire. The former was more interesting; the latter, more likely.
He didn't necessarily want to look, but train wreck syndrome is a universal thing, regarding not color, nor creed, nor class, nor species. He might have thought that the Concrete Jungle was a wasteland before. Before was nothing compared to the aftermath. His eyesight wasn't as good as it could have been, but if it had, he'd have seen splintered doors and blown-out windows, the remains sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. He'd be able to see the haphazard wooden dens that humans in wolves' clothing had built, a few for every territory, still smoldering among ash and char. Even the Yawrah River was struggling, two weeks of powerful heat having evaporated more of it than the ocean could restore. A few old flames still licked at evergreens and the bases of mountains, serpentine, taunting.
Disdain turned to unease. He hadn't been aware of the fact that he was afraid of heights. He was certainly aware now.
Unease turned to a wretched amalgamation of anger and nausea. He'd spent years in and out of this place, learning its secrets, mapping its pathways as twisted as big city catacombs. He'd wandered, explored, built, painted... and now it was gone. Speaking of being gone, how many of the people he'd met had perished in the fire?
... How many hadn't?
There was a path trodden between two nearby hills that he'd never seen before. Now it was hard to miss, what with the crushed grass and fresh soil, respectively defiled and tilled by what seemed to be pawprints. Several dozen pawprints.
A cloud passed over the moon. Far away, it began to rain.
Well, what the hell. There was nothing left for him here. Not even his most favoritest coat in the whole wide world.
Perhaps this new place had, if not a better one (would there - could there - ever be a better coat?), a suitable replacement.
He moved.