Rushing Toward Disaster

"Does it matter?"

The youthful voice that piped up to answer the cat's question with one of its own was cold, but the twist of scorn made it caustic, spoke of controlled rage and recent hurt that had frozen solid, diamond sharp and biting. The figure that uncurled from it's hidden sphinx-like position was leggy and sleek, but clearly belonged to a wolf who had not yet even reached his full height let alone adulthood.

Sabre Thyre had been spending as little time within the bounds of Imperium as possible, as little time with his sisters as he could. If it hurt them that he avoided them, he didn't care. He was surviving his grief in the only way he knew how, lashing out at those that reminded him of his pain, retreating into himself where he could wrap his hurt in ice and feel nothing.

This woman had stumbled upon his temporary hiding place, and the boy made a note to seek out a new. But she was, if nothing else, a distraction. Where do we go from here? "Everywhere you go is the same. Nothing changes." A bitter, jaded sentiment for such a young wolf, perhaps but one he felt to be a wholly appropriate philosophy.