With no destination the white ghost zig-zagged across the Lore, often crossing his own paths more than once. He scented a few packs and the odd loner's trail but never found anything to hold his wandering interest. He wanted something to conquer, something to rule, but around here the packs were solid and Pyrrhus wasn't about to round up a bunch of worthless rogues. He was beginning to consider joining a pack for a time for the support they could offer and the safety he could live in.
But that wasn't an issue yet. Food was plentiful now that summer was in full force; a lone wolf could scavenge just fine. Pyrrhus nosed around in the tall grasses that made up Blackberry Fields, hoping to pinpoint a scent that could lead him to food. The ivory fur around his lips was stained with dark juices from the blackberries speckling the place.
The white wolf suddenly dropped to his kneed and rolled to his side, digging his nose in the sweet grass as he writhed on the ground, soaking up the strangely luring aroma of a mostly rotten sparrow carcass. He rolled until he his fur was fully saturated with the scent and then resumed his meandering gait through the fields, not caring much about his surroundings but always subconsciously aware of the dangers it held. Not that it mattered. Pyrrhus was the strongest both in body and spirit. He was a king...he just had to find a kingdom to rule.