isolationists reverie
Nothing like a bout of childhood illness to really fuck a kid up. Months of quietly braving the trials of a mysterious malady had bred a shyness and caution into the boy, who looked less and less like a wolf with each passing day. His snout too long and narrow, his fur too long and wavy. The thick horns of a ram were beginning to sprout atop his crown, adding to the strangeness of the magenta marked babe. Through it all, he had been able to draw some measure of comfort from his studies. The few books he'd been able to scrounge up, his observations of the night sky on days where he was well enough to be outside. Already he was a somber and observant child, aged beyond his years by the whole affair. He was recovering more swiftly now, able to brave the unclaimed territories beyond his home pack. Still cautious, moving with a doe like gait of tentative wariness. But the open sky beckoned tonight, a moonless and wide expanse of stars in all directions. He had a few scraps of parchment and some charcoal, and he wanted to map them from a new location. To compare the differences. His awkward, gangly limbs were not particularly strong. It took some effort to make his way atop the taller stones that leaned against one another and created a latticework of granite. But he was determined to get as high as he could, and have an unobstructed view. Finally, he managed to clamber a few metres up the monoliths and could flop gracelessly onto the flat, frigid stone. For a while he just lay there, staring up at the stars with those lightning bolt eyes of his.
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