Bramblepoint Make it after all

Stark’s gaze found hers, his yellowed eye shifting with a mildness. He remained still except for the faintest flick of his ear, catching a distant rustling as a breeze stirred through the trees around them. Branches shifted above, casting dappled fragments of light across his pale fur. Where the light settled upon him, warmth blossomed in the thick of his fur.

“Curiosity, Georgia,” he began, drawing out each syllable of which he spoke, “is a fine thing. It keeps wolves breathing.” His words were spoken without warmth, more fact than sentiment, but his gaze never wavered from hers, reading her with an unsettling patience.

She had a guarded edge to her, something he recognized, perhaps even respected. Still, he watched her reaction carefully, his distant eye betraying nothing, save a slight twitch of his jaw as his nose inclined sharply, assessing her stance. He noted the tension in her, the way she balanced on the edge of the log, as if poised to leap at any moment.

He could've laughed.

Stark shifted slightly, his own posture deliberate and controlled, powerful limbs letting his toes flex. “I was born the Prince of my family's legacy,” he said, his tone colder, each word enunciated with a kind of detachment. “I’ve seen more than most would want to know—scars and all.” With that, he gestured with a paw to the marred half of his face. “And that... is all that I can remember.”

His expression twisted, betraying almost a hint of sorrow. Sorrow that still, in his travels, nothing of any importance had come back to him. He was a hollow shell of what he felt he'd once been.