Blackfoot Forest In a World of Shattered Skies

Hemlocke was, without a single doubt, completely and utterly lost. The young wolf didnt know where he was or where he was going and the constant screeching of foxes reminded him that this could not be a place to settle and call home. After being exposed into a livelihood of valleys, Hemlocke had come to fall in love with the dark forests that reminded him nothing of what he had long since left behind. The seclusion, the cover, the hidden secrets... wandering amongst the forests brought him a certain sense of comfort he had not held since the death of the crone. 

After his mother's death, he didnt know what to do with himself. Life had been clung at her side, both by her unrelentingly love and overbearing protection. He had never known loneliness and yet had never fully socialized with anyone but his mother. (Getting a Norman Bates vibe here!) He felt uncomfortable amongst the pack that feared he and his mother so and as such, left, only to wander months alone, cold, and hungry. 

His otherwise thin form was even more so, his ribs very much visible even with his thick, dark winter coat. Food had been awfully scarse, as usual for the winter season. Being a lone wolf at this time was horribly dangerous and yet he felt as though he had no choice in the manner of leaving. Sadly, the shadow paused, red wine eyes looking through the darkness of the forest, the cries of the foxes fading as the terrain had become rockier. Now he cries, lifting up his muzzle and howling out a low, haunting call to the heavens.