Burn Up

He is anything but passive. Proud and fit, the burned wolf strolls through the terra, wearing the wounds that mar his body with pride, for he is a survivor. He has tasted the flames intimately, and come out alive. Perhaps, with time, the fur would grow back on his brutally burned leg and hip, but then again, perhaps not. He knew not, nor did he worry about it now for old wounds were old wounds and now, though he walks with a limp that is distinct in its gait, for his back leg aches with the after-burn of scarred muscle that has re-knitted itself improperly, he is proud. He is a creature that is MADE of fire now, as he always has been.  With an acrid gaze of acid, he lifts his battle-scarred maw to the sky and squints, inhaling deeply the scent of the wind and the tasting the breath of his distant prey with a predator's hunger rising deep in his gut.

And so he will push onward, and he begins to walk. He is, by no means, a tall man. No, he is stout and strong and study, lacking the grace and finesse of many others in his field. He is rough around the edges, a boulder that has been weathered by the storm into a jagged crown, rather than a stone polished by a river. He is not a kind man, nor is he a very smart one. But he is good at hitting things, and that is what is most important.