The Eyes of Night
The eyes of night were cold and dull compared to his own. Ah, those vermillion optics which flamed in the most stunning and magnificent ways. True, he was reaching towards the age of elders, but the youth within his nature was evident. A simple mottled grey, but could such a wraith like coat ever be described as simple? And yet even this mass of covering was shedding from his multiple years of life.
He did not mind though and still remained faithful to the pack. It was a prominent group, a litter of pups every other spring, large scrapes of territory, and various sized game dotting those rattle-grass knolls. His life was complete and he had received much joy from raising the spring litters that came so often.
He was not bound to a mate, for only alphas are aloud this great privilege, but he inferred that being a high official was not as enjoyable as his life now. Wolves mate for life, and they do so willingly, and even if they are torn by sickness or death they will never leave their loyalties to find another. And so if his alpha were to be over thrown his mate would happily give up their own position to join him as a rogue. He would not be dead since wolves do not kill when they fight and blood is hardly ever spilled. (Unfortunately rumors like these are popular among other species).
Yes, his life was simple and what some might call 'boring', but the mere joy of spending time with his family was all that mattered. And as the silvered moon rose to its zenith he felt the emotion returned by those around him. They were crying to the ivory celestial lights, and baying their ultimate love. Moments like these were all that he truly lived for.
by Taren Werewolfmage.