scars

He was sore from his spar with Nanuk, yet Wicked didn't let it slow him down. He rose early and began to patrol, ignoring the aches and pains in his muscles. As he plodded around the mountain's base, he relived the battle in his head, a small smile twitching his lips. Although the wolves here gave him a hard time—Nanuk, especially—he knew he was going to love it here. His horrible past would crumble into ash and blow away with the wind. As always, the metaphor made his dark eyes gleam.

Eventually, his black toes led him to the very area where he and Nanuk had first met one another. He spotted a black wolf loitering near the edge of the tarns and Wicked immediately began to bristle, growl and bare his teeth. He began to prowl aggressively toward the stranger when he caught his scent and realized this wolf belonged to the spire. He stopped on a dime and let his lips relax back over his fangs even as his tail suddenly fell limp behind him.

He did not say anything, instead studying the black wolf and his demeanor from where he stood. The word forlorn came to mind. Wicked know what that felt like, though he still didn't deign to speak. This male was almost certainly his superior, so it was his right to speak first.