The sound of splintering branches echoed overhead, bringing pause to the loner's step, his gold eyes darting upwards. Only a squirrel... As he continued, doing his best to keep a SILENT presence, he was calmed by the saturated scent of the forest's earthy smell - it was emphasised by the light drizzle that tapped on the leaves all around. His coat was now sparkling with the droplets from the rain, slick in some spaces by his shoulders, and his muzzle was finely decorated with dewy spots, bringing out the silver of his AGING black fur. The entire scene was near picturesque, but PEACE was hardly set in the lone wolf's mind and heart.
From where he had made his den in the Wildwood, Orvar had travelled somewhat FAR from home. Contrasting from the first few days in this territory, the youth in his step had seemingly deteriorated with the lack of proper feed, and every step seemed more and more WEARY. He missed the days when he and his siblings dashed madly through the snow after caribou, watching the masses curve in waves across the open alabaster plains, some drawing up close enough you could simply lunge forth a few steps and snatch it by the side. But THAT was no more. Orvar was thankful for one thing - and that was the current season, when prey was plenty, and small voles and rabbits could be caught without so much as a frustrated mistake. He had filled his belly to content himself, but LONELINESS was the single hunger he could not yet cure, for every living thing either feared him, or was eaten and gnashed by his hungry jaws.
So it had been planned that, today, he would bring himself dangerously close to one of the borders of the surrounding packs, where he would linger just outside the markers, idling, and stroll about to let his FOREIGN scent mix with the earthy atmosphere of the forest. His life could have easily been at stake, but whether he chose to ignore it or was contemplating his choices, it was undecided. And THERE, he began skirting the territory, his head level with his steady spine, eyes darting to and fro, the scents flowing in and out of his snout smoothly. He only HOPED that his discontent with solitude had not disparaged his ability to be respectful, and silently wished that his desperation would stir the traits of amiability for his ACCEPTANCE.
art by ritwell