Just a wolf that likes landscapes and photography, just not very good at photography.
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In the shadowed heart of the forest, where moonlight barely threads through the pines, the lone wolf pads silently. His fur is not the sleek silver of the pack's favored, nor does his howl carry the wild, stirring cadence that draws others near. He is not outcast by force, but by a quiet gravity—an unremarkable rhythm to his steps, a muted timbre in his calls. The pack does not shun him; they simply drift, their eyes catching on brighter pelts, their ears pricked to bolder songs.
He hunts alone, not for pride but necessity, tracking the same worn trails each dusk. His kills are precise, sufficient, never excessive—lacking the flourish that sparks tales among the young. The others do not speak his name in scorn, but neither do they whisper it in longing. His presence is a soft weight, like snow that falls unnoticed until the ground is heavy.
In the stillness, he watches the pack circle and weave, their bonds a dance of snarls and nuzzles. He longs to join, to feel the warmth of fur against fur, but his paws hesitate. What could he offer? His stories are of steady breaths, of endless treks through unchanging woods. They do not quicken pulses or kindle fires. So he lingers at the edge, a shadow among shadows, his heart a quiet drum no one marches to.
Yet, in the deep of night, when the pack sleeps and the wind carries only truth, he wonders if the fault is not in his muted howl, but in a world that craves only the loudest cries. Perhaps, he thinks, there is a strength in his silent tread, a depth in his unadorned existence. But the forest offers no answers, and the dawn calls him to wander again, alone, beneath the weight of a sky that sees but does not speak.
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