anemoia

Wendigo wasn't like some folks who lived purely for the battlefield, where nothing else mattered except the next fight and the next and the next. He had plenty of interests outside of sinking his teeth into another body like some rabid creature who couldn't help itself. That said, he really, really liked it here and he really, really liked to fight. It was fun and exhilarating, and gave you surprising insight to the minds of other wolves if you cared enough to think about it, and your own mind if you weren't too chickenshit for self-reflection. So the various battlefields of these lands gave him a sort of odd sense of nostalgia not because he had spent a lot of his time on them, but because they all had the same sense to them and put him in mind of a lot of very fun times for him. And, oddly, a sense of nostalgia for what was to come for him if he worked hard enough here. Was it possible to be nostalgic for something that hadn't happened yet? Well, he was. He was nostalgic as fuck for what hadn't happened yet.

Humming softly - and off-key-ly - to himself, he made his way deeper into the land and raised his muzzle to call out a mocking challenge to anyone there.