Vaken was losing weight. His time as a lone wolf was not doing him good. His stubbornness to not join a pack was going to kill him, but that was okay. He had spent years like this. He was stronger from his training with Garmir, better in combat, but still too thin for it to matter. He was still a fool, and it showed in his body. His already thin legs were scrawnier, his ribs were showing. He had outgrown his yearling body but replaced it with the frail malnourished body of stunted growth. His lifestyle was taking a toll on him. He'd lost his chance to grow. He was lucky to have others around him, like Circe, to share their kills. He was not much of a hunter. Small prey was easy, but he exerted more energy catching it than it was worth. He needed big meals to keep his energy up.

He prowled low, nose to the ground, searching. His heart wasn't in it. He was always hunting these days, constantly on the lookout for prey, but rarely chasing. He wanted his dinner to fall into his lap. He did get lucky sometimes; a half eaten coyote kill here, a dead squirrel there. The summer was great for it. He always wanted the easy way out. Life was not the way Vaken expected it to be.

The mangy villain stopped abruptly, tired from his journey. He sat, turned his head and began to groom. This was not his regular behaviour. His did not take care of his fur, but recently an infected wound on his shoulder called him to attention. He could barely reach it, and it wasn't healing well. "Come on," he groaned, dragging his tongue across the pus. He spat out a bit of dead skin, anger replacing with pain. He didn't like to feel weak. It made him self-depreciating, his internalized hatred spewing. He was the most dangerous when he felt pathetic.