whispers in the rain

After he left his family in that miserable valley, Riptide had gone wandering. Where? Even he did not know, he went wherever his paws took him and rested when fatigue overwhelmed him. He never joined a pack even once in the months, or was it years, that he was alone and exploring the world. He'd admit that this being alone thing didn't really work out with him, for wolves were social creatures in the end and he yearned for the company of his own kind even if it was just to piss them off, though obviously he wasn't going to admit it.

Riptide traveled for so long he had forgotten time entirely. Maybe he was already two years old, or perhaps even three! He did not know, and truth to be told, he didn't really care. You were born, you lived, then you died. Age didn't matter, not to him. Others could boast that they were already adults since they were officially a year old, but to him, they were all the same. All those who lived and roamed this earth were the same, because they were living and not dead.

Riptide stopped by the scent markers of a pack, his ears twitched as he caught the sounds of the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and the small movement of a vole scurrying back into it's home. Black nostrils inhaled the scent of fresh food. Not that he was hungry, he'd recently filled himself up on a deer carcass. He chased away the wolf who caught it and feasted on the meat that remained (which was a lot). Others might say it was unfair, but there were no rules in the wild. Nothing was fair here, or unfair for that matter.

The russet male turned and began walking away, he was in no mood to join a pack yet. Then he stopped and turned around, regarding the dark woods with curious turquoise eyes. He was a respectable distance away (the natives sure were touchy about these things), but would they notice him? Were they strong?