Wreckage of the Past

Gloved paws found themselves wandering in the direction of his last location before shutting himself away from the world. He was unsure why he was going back. Perhaps to find some fragment of hope that someone he would recognize would be there...or maybe nothing was there at all. He walked quietly, gaze cast about warily as he moved on. He wasn't keen on an ambush, or a fight. And truth be told he didn't feel he had the energy for one neither. After an hour or so of traveling across the plains, he made it. The youth climbing atop a rock surface to get a better view of his surroundings, and he saw made his heart ache. It was desolate, empty, wiped free of the old pack scent that was once here. The aftermath of the war was all that was left, a dead body lying near some rocks, not completely intact as the weather had decomposed it. It wasn't anyone he recognized from Valhalla, so most likely it was a brute from the northern pack that had attacked them. Tearing his eyes away, he slid down the rock and slowly walked through the plains. Nothing was recognizable anymore, and nothing seemed the same. It was desolate, and it felt as if the very earth itself here were weeping for the vibrant life it once held.