Wolf RPG - journey's end

@Alder

It's the way of a wanderer to - well - wander. And he's been walking nonstop for what felt like days. The wilds are impressively sized, and with every territory's end there seemed to always be more land stretching ever onward. For the young and excitable adventurer, it must have been overwhelming. For the old and soulless soldier, it was tiring. He wasn't the type to long for home and hearth - certainly not a pack man, by any means - but there was a latent sadness in the way of the homeless shadow, escaping death simply by running. It didn't offer itself for anything more than sleepless nights and cold mornings, really.

He lets himself shuttle to a stop on a hillside, pressing his thick chest into the soft grass and letting out a whuff. He hadn't realized his muscles were so tired. Soldiers pushed on through anything, and when they did stop, they often ached for days. It's no warmer here than it was where he came from, but there were little clouds in the sky, and the sun beat down warm and bright overhead. Crossing one paw over the other, the old soldier falls about grooming what new small scars have knicked their way over his legs, most gained from walking through branches or catching on thorns. He would have been the picture of calm, too, were it not for the latent tense of his muscles beneath that thin veneer of relaxation; always ready, always waiting. No wonder he was so tired.

So much had happened in the past week of Alder's life: after returning home and chosing to step down from King- temporarily, of course, he would likely take the throne again after the children were born- he'd gotten the oppurtunity to talk to Heartha. She, too, carried his children, and there was nothing wrong with that, to him. The act to create them had been, yes, and every day the guilt from his hormone induced affair burdered his wide ginger shoulders, but his kids would always be his kids. He refused to be the parent his mother was, and instead strove to be the father his was. Just because those pups would have a different mother didn't mean he loved them less. For him, he was happy with life: he'd soon be a father, he was the ruler of a great golden forest, his wife had forgiven his mistake, and the den mother bore him no ill will..... Why should he be upset?

For the first time in a week, Alder had left the Glade with a howl to @Aspen and @Shalon letting them know he'd be back in an hour or two-just going to stretch his legs. When the scent of another pack drifted in his nose, he almost went right to the Creek in an alliance mission, until another, closer one brings his massive paws to a halt.
It takes a moment, but after turning fully to his other side, he finally rests his one good eye on another man-this one much older than himself. He's washing, but even from yards away Alder can see that he is ready to jump to his own defence should the need arise. The unruly furred man chuffed softly, padding closer with a curious tip to his head and a friendly wave of the tail he holds high. His ears cup forward, but he tries to keep signs of dominance out of his posture: this is an older being, filled with knowlege and deserving of respect. Upon sliding a foot or two closer, Alder notices the scars littering his pelt, and he freezes with a tiny gasp of wonder. This man, too, was missing his right eye, and sported a half-mask of scar even worse than his own.
Now, Alder opened both of his eyes- it was a rare thing, for as his eye was not entirely gone he didn't want to make his family uncomfortable- and faced the soldier directly before giving a bow. He did not speak, not yet, but questions already piled in his head.

He's hyperaware of himself - he had to be. Alien territory, strange scents, an abundance of fawna that meant an abundance of wolves. No matter how big, how scarred, how intimidating, he was still a sitting duck, and there were plenty that existed who weren't scared of a few gouges and a deep voice. One ruined ear flickered forward despite his still-focused ministrations, his tongue still busy with one gash cut too deep. When it became all too obvious that the blur in his periphery was approaching, Karma let his gaze rise, the single eye following the scarred face presented to him.

Were they missing the same eye? An hint of amusement fluttered through his gaze as the younger wolf bowed his head, a soldier's scrutiny picking up on the mix of scents and the mess that had become of his face. A neater amount of scars, nicely framing a ruined eye; it was tidier than he could have asked for. For once, he's tempted to speak; he doesn't, but he can't help but wonder at so polite a display. He's never been one for conversation, though, and the scars over his lips curled like wax paper when his face twisted with something like a look of expectance. Can I help you?

An ear lopsided thoughtfully - he hadn't smelled any borders, not really, but suppose he'd wandered into pack territory? That could be a mess, whether this bowing young man knew it or not. The veteran let his paws tuck together, sitting up with a shake of the matted fur over his shoulders. The least he could do was be somewhat polite back, right?

The much older male was silent, and gave Alder a well-earned look that told him he might be crazy, but was polite back to the Golden Glade ruler. It was an honor- and his smile showed it. When the scarred warrior looked at him for explanation, Alder broke the quiet.

"How'd you lose yours?

Of course, he meant the eye: his own mess of an eye was a wreck, but not lost- only sightless and disgusting, but at least healed. Alder also had less scars- the three across his face, a completely halved ear, one on his cheek - that were smooth and clear. This soldier was ragged with scars and, along with them, stories. In good hopes, Alder would get to hear some of them today.

Im so sorry for the short post T_T

shhh it's perfectly ok uvu/ sorry for taking so long!!

Well. Blunt, isn't he? The browbones beneath that ruined face spark upward, and Karma's ears flutter, a brief thread of exhaustion summoning up besides that old veteran's exictement of storytime storytime storytime. Like an old, old machine, he shuffles and shifts to balance the weight of his heavy bones, a huskty dragon's breath filtering through white teeth under ruined lips. He could only wish for scars as nice and tidy as this one's.

Mistake in battle. He let the words crawl out like cigar smoke, the remaining golden eye sliding over black face to the verdant grass surrounding, blinded by pale sun. Squinting, his torn mouth pulled in a frown, the memory lighting some phantom tendons long ripped out with memories of pain. Fighting two isn't easy, but I managed, until one of them caught my neck and the other bit into my face. It's not without his own inflection - he's no storyteller, but he's not a robot! - and he sends a small, caustic glance to the filmy eye on the other male's face, phantom socket narrowing with still-there lids.

You have a story too, I assume? What made a man not want to blind entirely? A petty claw to the face did much less than the possible blood loss of an entire gelatinous marble simple torn out.

Despite the older mans surprise and Alder's forward question, he was humored. The scarred man revealed that he'd made a mistake in battle, and though the Pryor could relate, the next bit of info was even more surprising. Such a warrior that could take on two others had earned respect! Alder winced in sympathy, but nodded when his own story was prompted.

"Bear attack. My pack and I were still in the process of settling when the beast attacked. I jumped in front of the swing that would've killed my friend and sank my fangs into its throat.... Too bad she went and deserted us after."

Alder is clearly proud of his scarrage, made clear by the perking of his ears and the rise of his tail, if not the grin across his face.

"I'm Alder Pryor."