We were born sick
He had slipped away from his mothers usual watchful eye. Though as soon as she woke and noticed his absence, there would be hell to pay. But it was worth it. He was nearly two months old. He had grown rapidly, massive paws a subtle clue to his future monstrous size. He would leave the forest behind, nose to the ground, nostrils quivering as his senses were overloaded with new smells. He had left early morning, and by afternoon, he had found himself nearly the border of a pack. The scent stood out, clearing marking the edge of claimed lands. His dark crown would lift, ears swiveling. Hills rolled endlessly before him, grasses growing green once more. It was far different from the forest he had been raised in. Though now he couldn't imagine living in a place that so was open, with no cover, no thick mist to conceal his approach.
Pools of liquid silver absorbed everything like a sponge, it all being committed to memory. For all the bloodshed he had seen, he had seen little of the world. Since his birth, he had witnessed his mother reign victorious several times. He had seen the blood stain her ivory pelt, watched others inflict wounds upon her. Such acts had instilled a vicious temper in him, a unyielding possessiveness to defend his mother from the mongrels who dared to lay a paw on her. The desire to spill their blood across his forest had grown overwhelming at times, but he was held by his age. With each passing day he was beginning to realize more and more the path his mother was laying out for him. Together, one day, they would rule and empire that was unlike any other. Others would bow before him, kiss the ground he walked on, and blood would be spilled in his name. A sneer would begin to curl his lips, his trek halting about ten feet from the border. |