no time to bleed.

N/A · 10-30-2013, 05:53 PM

Typhon

Most rational wolves found the night to be depressing. Nighttime was most often thought of as the time to sleep, to hide, until daylight shone upon the earth once again -- there was nothing but death and suffering in the darkness. Depraved and twisted souls lurked behind every tree, poised to strike at any second. The day, in comparison, was likened with joy. The world was filled with light and goodness, the bad souls sticking out like sore thumbs against the beauty of the world.

For a blind wretch like Typhon, this was not the case. Though he had no idea how he appeared to others, he felt very much like one of the wolves a mother might warn her pups against. Ugly. Broken. Not right. Day offered him nothing. In the darkness, at least, he could choose to be unseen. He could hide. The comfort often surpassed the loneliness. Ah, the loneliness. The aching feeling in his chest that never seemed to go away. The bad days were often, there were brief glimmers of hope. A passing conversation, even a quick greeting often kept him from plummeting into a deep sadness that he hadn't experienced for many moons. Typhon was simply waiting for the day when he might come across someone who understood; someone who, engulfed in their own darkness, their own misery, might reach out to him. It was the possibility of meeting someone like this that kept him going, even on the most awful of days.

The midday sun beat down relentlessly on Typhon's back as he made his way across the flat expanse of land before him. Though it was autumn and the air was quite frigid, when the wind died down, the rays of the sun were strong and warm. The male's nostrils flared with intent as he took each step, unwilling to let a stranger startle him. His planned steps were also able to keep him from colliding with any obstacles -- he'd been entirely humiliated of himself the first few times he had run into a tree, scraping his nose roughly, and even now, he occasionally felt himself tripping over fallen logs or rubble. He felt the wind flowing freely around him, and his ears searched for the sound of trees or other obstacles. The sound of the ruffling grass and flowers echoed vaguely, rather than bouncing off the surroundings, and so he knew he could be more sure in his gait. Typhon appeared much more confident than usual as he made his way across the earth. In many ways, he could be compared to a ghost. While his movements were not regal, they were not mechanical, either. His coat was a dirty brown hue, blending perfectly with the bright autumn colors that surrounded him. His pale, glossy eyes were even more spectral; useless, bright orbs sitting motionless in their sockets. Even his expression was entirely impassive, a blank slate, which gave him an almost sinister appearance. A scarred, blind rogue, who surely meant nothing but trouble.

But his thoughts soon subsided again as the landscape changed suddenly. The humidity rose as the lake grew nearer; though most of the flowers had died off, the faint scent lingered here still. With his heightened sense of smell, the flowery scent was more pungent than expected, and it briefly overwhelmed him. Memories of his sweet mother flooded his mind, his once neutral expression distorting itself, the mixture of emotions bringing a confused appearance to Typhon's normally placid face. It was often difficult to read his face; no matter how he felt, his eyes were empty and still; no hatred shone in them, nor did joy ever brighten their glossy surface. His tail flicked, a sign of aggravation, as the scent permeated his very being. It did not help that the fragrance was mixed with a feminine odor, clearly that of a female. Ears suddenly perked above his cranium, searching for familiar sounds. If he ever did find his mother -- or any of his family, for that matter -- he was not sure how he would react. Part of him was full of hatred, of complete loathing for them, but family was family, and he hardly remembered what true companionship was like. He longed for this type of connection so badly that he doubted he would do anything to jeopardize it, if the opportunity presented itself.

Realizing that it was not, in fact, his mother, soothed his confused mind momentarily. Despite the sudden surge of anxiety, Typhon was having one of his better days, and the presence of another was often too much for the isolated brute to ignore.

His pace quickened slightly as he made his way toward the source of water. It seemed to be a pond or a lake of sorts, as he neglected to hear the sound of rushing water. Not a river, and the air lacked the salinity necessary for the ocean. With guarded, deliberate motions he pushed himself closer, paws dragging tightly against the dirt as he rustled through leaves and vegetation, until he reached the side of the lake. It was there he would slowly lower himself, curling his body tightly into itself.

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