ashes

It's been way too long. <3

<style>.forest1 .ooc {font-style:italic; color:#494a43; } .forest1 p {padding: 0px 9px; margin:0px; text-indent:25px; } .forest1 b {color:#282828; letter-spacing:-.1px; } .forest1 {background-color:#b5bbc6; background-image:url('http://i.imgur.com/HPq9O7z.png'); background-position:bottom center; background-repeat:no-repeat; } .forest1 .float {float:right; width:0px; height:10px; } .forest1 .text {font-family:georgia, serif; font-size:12px; color:#4c4c4c; letter-spacing:.1px; word-spacing:.1px; line-height:18px; width:460px; text-align:justify; padding: 20px 20px 310px 20px; } .forest1-border {width:500px; margin:0 auto; }</style>

He knew restlessness. The ashen brute knew wanderlust. The two things echoed through his body, engraved in the marrow of his bones. If not for the company of his only sibling, Kierkegaard would have been born and bred into a life of loneliness. Still, he knew only what it meant to wander. There was a certain fear in the idea that he could give up his lifestyle for something he knew very little about. Wolves were not meant to survive on their own. It was a fluke that the Sairensu male had made it that far. It could not go on forever.
There was a sound – quiet and distant – that drew the ashen male’s attention towards the opening of the pack. His sharp gaze caught sight of a large male cloaked in handsome golden honey and brown colors. He was an impressive sight. Kierkegaard regarded him with a slow once-over before fixing his gaze on the nose of the strange male. There was something about his figure, the way his body was carried, that surprised the ashen loner. His mind was a series of whirring cogs as he tried to place the familiarity of this beast, though he came up short of any answers. Perhaps it was the cut of his spirit. There was a certain fire to the stranger’s golden gaze that Kierkegaard could understand. They were forged from the same fire. At some point in their lives, they had been cast into the same light… staggering, wayfaring souls.
After a moment of pause, the two wolves regarding each other with a strange sort of reverence, Kierkegaard drew his head upwards only slightly from its lowered position and blinked his sharp gaze slowly at the male before him. His posture suggested that he was of high importance in the pack, and so the loner could only guess, “you’re the Alpha.” His voice cut through the silence like a distant thunder, rolling from the depths of his chest and through his throat. The comment was issued as more of an observance than a question, for there was little doubt in Kierkegaard’s mind about the status of this stranger.
The pallid brute was not a social creature; it was evident by his appearance alone. He stood, stock still, in the pale light of the autumn morning. A sharp breeze cut through the tops of the trees, lifting the fur along his spine and causing a chill to race down the length of his back. Immediately, Kierkegaard began to second-guess this meeting. He did not belong with others. He was cut from a different stone.