Grim Reaper in Wolf's Clothing

Night. Emptiness. Death. All are associated with black. Why then did the creature of the night, the living personification of emptiness, and the bringer of death not possess a pelt of black? To answer this is quite simple. The aspects of this world are not uncomplicated nor conforming of expectations, and neither should they be restricted to stereotypes. To expect is to often be disappointed. Indeed he didn't look a sinister brute in his coloration, but as previously inferred, looks can be deceiving. On broad paws and muscled legs he roamed, his large frame one of few obstacles to disrupt the stream of temperate air that flowed about the landscape. In this way he had wandered for many miles, soon losing all knowledge of the exact amount of days and distance that had passed as each individual moment and pawstep merged together as a whole that could be defined, in summary, as simply survival.

Tender rustlings of the wild grasses that were tormented by the breeze made the wolf's ears flick around to the sound, the wind moving in circles and waves through the thickets to make the plants sway and transform the surroundings into an amphitheatre with the evening's nature as the orchestra. Insects hopped about, confident that they were unseen beneath the cloak of night, but they were not unheard as they chirped. The canine form planned his steps purposefully to move where the foliage was thinnest, therefore leaving no evidence of his route as he did not need to push back their stems with his body to the point where they could not return to their normal position. His path was a secret one, and other than his scent nobody would know where he had come from and where he had travelled to. Cynric preferred it that way, to not be able to be tracked, as the great warrior he had become knew that stealth and anonymity were important assets when stalking a kill, and from living alone it was an advantage to pass by other predators unnoticed. Glancing up, he noticed that in these lands the stars were bright, though not quite as plentiful as in his homeland, yet there were considerably more here than there had been in the grounds he had visited in recent days. Making mental note of this, he cast his observant eyes back to his central vision. Nose flaring, the male knew the smell of water was in the air. It didn't take long to realize why, as his calloused pads were submerged in a big yet shallow puddle of water. He moved through the liquid easily, not changing his stride from how he walked over the dry land. Nothing was going to deter him from his goal, he was determined to get a glimpse into the pack territory and meet a representative of the members.

Continuing, the sky began to snarl and the clouds suddenly unleashed their wet havoc onto the earth. The brute's usually long, flowing fur strands were now plastered coldly against his skin, showing more of his true form and bulk beneath his coat that few had actually glimpsed. If one looked closely, they would see the bump on his chest where his proxy was sealed within, close to his heart. His place of origin allowed him to not be affected by the lack of insulation as his fur was slicked back and soaked by the Spring rain. Coming to a halt, he stood proudly on a small rise in the earth that allowed him a view of the land without breaching the boundaries of the border. Scent markers were stronger in these parts, and it seemed the superior wolves that dwelled here visited their perimeters often. Scanning his lifeless eyes over the area, he saw fields and mountains on the horizon. Moreover his nostrils allowed him an even better view, the scents of the ocean, lakes and forests flooding into his nose with every breath. It seemed very peaceful, almost too much so for his liking, but it didn't mean the wolves here were equally calm and inviting. In preparation he held his stance firm, equally prepared to defend himself as to talk with whoever came to find him. Raising his muzzle to the sky he released a song deep from his chest, low and masculine, perhaps more like a war cry of a rogue than the beautiful melody of a fae. However, it was a polite request for company all the same. As he waited for some response or a presence he stayed stood, alert of his surroundings despite the lashings of showers that came from the cloudy climes above. From afar all that would be seen was a silhouette upon the slope, barely distinguishable from the black of the night and amongst the blur of the downpour. Focusing on a single white blossom before him that had stooped under the strain of carrying water on its petals, he harnessed his element and gradually made the flower wilt away, making it the complete opposite pigment than what it was created, as dark as the pupils of the reaper's orbs. Oh, how death could be so easy under the correct power, and how one could be changed so fast.