Slowly the days grew longer, the promise of spring in the air... It was almost enough to make him sick... Almost. And yet still some slow drag pulled at his gut with longing. A need yet to be sated in his three years of life. Was it enough to be leader? Was it enough to claim what was rightfully his when the time came? Or was there more...? Slyscar had always been jealous of Blackcrow, it was more than plain to see should you glance upon him at the right moment - but not for the reasons one might assume. No, it wasn’t the power he held, his charismatic smile or flawless ebony pelt. It wasn’t even the deep booming of his voice, unmistakable from any other. No. Blackcrow had been loved. By everyone. Even by Slyscar himself. And he hated the man for it.
Could he remember the warmth of his mothers embrace? A glance of approval from his father or even a smile of camaraderie from a sibling? No - the memories of his early life had been blocked out just as savagely as the memory of what caused the scar that marred his hind leg. Ugly and twisted, just like the wolf that wore it, and yet somehow he managed to get by - with strategic smiles and jokes and smooth words. It was all a game, and he was tired of playing.
Thrusting his head within the rotted out log, he took a moment to add yet another layer to his coak of confused scents. A dead fox here, some other carrion there, and anything that carried the musty scent of the woods of these lands. Were anyone to stumble upon him they may think him scavenging for food, and he may as well have been trying. He donned an easy look of despair given his current train of thought, before removing his head from it’s musty prison. With a short shake of his dark brown coat he continued on his way amongst the drooping branches of the Willows. No sure destination in sight - yet.