cry a little

Oxide had grown up with his mother, and his uncle. He never knew his sire, didn’t know his name or what he looked like. Occasionally a cousin or two would show up, and more frequently than Ox liked to remember his mother or Deimos brought home one fling or another. There were only two wolves who were constant in his life, and they both had despised packs. That feeling had easily been passed onto the young boy. Oxide valued his freedom above all else, and that meant from the rule of packs as well.

”Of course not." While he might have realized most wolves preferred the safety and comfort of a pack he never really thought about it. In his mind they were all forced to stay there and take up responsibilities and families. The Nightingale boy couldn’t stomach it. He hadn’t ever really been alone either, always there was Nysa or Deimos. The three of them had forged their own way, stealing when times got rough. She presented a picture of her young life that Oxide couldn’t comprehend. He was the only pup, the golden child from Nysa’s loins.

She wen ton to ask about their meal, and the boy couldn’t deny changing the subject. His stomach growled in protest and he nodded in affirmation. ”There may have been some warthogs further up.” He thought he’d taken in their musky scent. They were tough, but two wolves could take one. They could more easily dig it out of its burrow even.