Put Your Hand Into The Fire

He nodded slightly in response to her question. She seemed to be avoiding asking about his scars, he was used to that by now, to the awkward politeness of other wolves who wanted to feel better than the others by their ability to resist judging someone simply by how they looked. Unfortunately it did little to impress him, he knew what he was, how he looked, how others thought of him. And he knew no wolf would ever admit to it. Most of it was true regardless. What burned at him, what ground against his nerves, were the ones that insisted he was some beautiful creature that hobbled with the pride and flourish of a peacock. It was a joke to him, that anyone would dare insist he was anything but horrific. But that was for another time. He turned slowly to face her, remaining at a distance. He could feel the question coming, almost hear it "How did you get those scars?" The question he had heard so many times before and would inevitably have to answer again. He would wait to be surprised, wait to hear what she said next. Wait for her to ask before he answered, the words ready to roll off his tongue.