Our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow
CREVAN
Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Crevan sat unmoving as a tree trunk rooted to the earth, staring out across the Meadow with a keen eye and a keener sense of loneliness. He was dressed as he always liked to be: wearing his wolf skin, free to point his snout at the sky and sniff out the horses in the distance who either hadn’t noticed him or had, the latter of which often paused in conversation or eating to cast him a wary glance. Studying them, he wondered idly what it would feel like to revert to the old ways, just try on his horse skin for the fun of it and join in on the conversation.
The large white wolf rose instead and turned away from the crowd, leaving his tail to follow behind as he made a quiet exit.
He knew better than to entertain an idea like the one he’d had moments before. They never did him any good, not when his mother’s eyes taunted him from the darkest parts of his dreams or when Corvus laughed at the back of his thoughts. It’d been years since Crevan had last gone horse, and there would be years to come before he put the old skin on again. Try as he liked, he was not one of them; he was only filled with the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of tasting warm blood on his tongue, and an acute pain that filled him with so much loneliness and sadness he found himself howling at the moon when it shone brightest and best. Even if he did dress the pretender [talk like they talked and walk like they walked], he was sure that the other horses would sense his “wrongness”.
So here he was: Crevan the lone wolf, Crevan the undying. The unyielding. Some animal stuck between two worlds, never fully belonging to either. An outcast - an outlaw in the very homeland he’d been born in, but persisting nonetheless. He lived because he could not die, and the cycle seemed a fitting sort of penance when he took to wandering nearer the other horses like he had today.
@[Evenstar]