The Heartwood isolation theory

Autumn in the Heartwood seemed like such a magical and serene place. A fine beginning for the wayward persian. His jewel-like green eyes wide as he took in all the colours, burnt red, orange, yellow. It was like a wildfire had swept the woods, death was slowly suffocating the valley, a glorious war of nature. When he had been just a pup the notion of violence and fighting to please the gods (and his father) was all he had ever dreamed of. All he ever wanted and desired. But now he was just a shell, empty, isolated and alone. With no path to follow and no gods to watch over him. No plans and no future, it was a daunting time for Altair.

He was heading completely into the unknown, quite literally. These lands he had stumbled into per chance were new. He had become a simple rouge over the past year. Scavenging more often then hunting and playing the survival game until finally his paws had brought him here. Taking a break from his aimless wandering and searches for food the tawny pelted lad would sit upright near the base of a large oak where he would catch his breath.