Molder

You approach the alpha of the pack, a surprisingly small and morose wolf, patterned with strange wolverine-like markings. He seems reserved, and almost.. sad. This quiet melancholy draws you in. Though he is quick and light on his feet, you notice he seems to prefer to be alone, fishing or digging up oddly-shaped tubers.

Birth: Nighttime, Summer

Mate: Stern

Relatives: Darlington (brother)

Friends: 

Occupation: Alpha

Likes: skulls, plants, pheasant meat, peace

Dislikes: mud, snow, bullies

Hobbies: howling and singing, collecting

Backstory

     Molder was born to his sire Skunkbear and his dam Honeybee. Two other pups were present in his litter- Darlington, his brother, and Iki, his sister. His name means death or decay, and it was given to him by his father, who named the sons of his litter. Molder was a sickly pup; despite being born in a small litter he caught illnesses easily, and was often overpowered while suckling or squabbling. Despite this, he survived thanks to the help of his older, bigger brother. Darlington was the literal golden child of the family, and swiftly learned to hunt large insects and small rodents, which he would then share with Molder. 

     The brothers were raised in a small pack of wolves who worshipped and valued the natural world above all else. A prairie pack, many of the wolves were brightly colored such as Darlington, and dark furred wolves such as Molder and Skunkbear (who was big and bad enough to have become the alpha!) were seen as cursed. Because of this, Molder was often bullied when he was not around his brother, who more and more as they grew older went on explorations and hunts with Skunkbear, their father. Knowing his brother was preparing to fight for the title of alpha someday, Molder bothered him less and less. It pained him to be a burden.

     As he was not big or strong like Skunkbear and Darlington, Molder had to rely on speed, smarts, and trickery in his adolescence. While he could not overpower his peers in the pack, he could outrun them and, occasionally, trip up the fastest one and rip his ears. By the time his peers attempted to dog pile him, Molder would be racing off again. Once, wanting to cause his fellow adolescents the emotional pain he had suffered thus far, he let out an insufferable cackle as he raced away, leaving his opponent dusty and bleeding.

     That night, Skunkbear would not let him into the den. In a fantastic and terrifying display Molder had never seen from his otherwise reserved father before, Skunkbear laid his fangs to Molder again and again, driving him away from the warmth and comfort of the den. Molder finally appealed to Darlington, who with guilt in his eyes, told Molder what had happened. Everyone had heard of his evil, mad laugh after he'd harmed the other pup that day. Every pack member had wanted Molder chased off, for good.

     "Well then, I shall leave," Molder had said then, although the words turned his stomach to solid stone. Darlington had looked at him sadly, and slowly shaken his head.

     "Father doesn't want you to leave."

     Molder then listened as Darlington explained Skunkbear's punishment for him: he would not be allowed to leave the pack, as it was likely that he would simply find another pack to live with, and thrive. No, instead, Molder the Mad would be made to sleep outside in the elements, would be made to catch his own food, find his own water, procure his own herbs. After all, a wolf who treated his own pack in such a way as sickly little Molder, ripping their ears over what was just a bit of fun, did not deserve to be cared for in return. Molder had balked at the news. This was a dreadful existence; essentially that of a lone wolf. But a lone wolf with a front seat view of pack life, of the pack tearing into the savory flank of prey, drinking from cool springs they would surely chase him from, lying in the softest den and being treated with the most soothing of herbs.

     Molder did consider running away that night. When he crept to the edge of the prairie, however, and stared into the shadows of the pine barrens, familiar eyes glowed back out at him. Skunkbear's cousin, a pale wolf simply known as Batty, was waiting there. A warning growl sounded out, and Molder cowered, his tail between his legs, and crept back to the edge of the pack's camp. The existence that followed for him had been a lonely one, a hungry one, a thirsty and a painful one. In the first weeks, Molder began to wonder if he had in fact gone mad. Hunger worst of all had gnawed away at his insides, gnawed away at his insanity, as he lived on crickets and carrion. Even on good days, when he managed to catch a rabbit or pheasant, when he had clean water to lap up instead of a mud puddle, Molder could not be sated. Darlington would no longer so much as look at him. Molder learned to expect the pain, the hunger, the rage and the loneliness. He came to hate his father for not defending him from the pack's adolescents, Darlington for not standing up to his father, his mother for letting all of this go on, and his pack for keeping him a prisoner.

     It was a full turning of the moon before a night much like that first would grant him his freedom. Molder had sunken into a pained, fitful sleep at the edge of the pine barrens, a twisted back paw throbbing hotly and keeping him from any sort of good rest. He'd been awakened by a cold, wet nose prodding at his flank and, about ready to snap at whoever had come to make his torment worse, Molder rose, growling savagely and caring little if picking a fight cost him his life. Instead of just any pack member, however, he gazed into the golden eyes of Darlington.

     "We can run," the young prince was whispering, "But we must go fast. Batty will only be distracted by his hunting for so long." Still angry and confused, it had taken a shove from Darlington to get Molder's pained paws moving, and then they were racing North, towards the lush grasslands everyone knew would make an easier home, but that no one was willing to give up their pride for. Each tortuous step of the way, Molder's fur burned with fear, and he imagined Batty and Skunkbear chasing after him, their maws open wide and their breath hot on his heels. Perhaps miraculously, however, Molder and Darlington ran throughout the night; Darlington in smooth, powerful strides, and Molder in quick, limping bursts of muscle. 

     Molder collapsed only once he was sure they had reached the grasslands, the full moon turning the winter landscape silver. His failing body would only let him see the beautiful, cold view in broken moments, darkness closing in with each beat of his heart. It would be Darlington who nursed him back to health; Darlington who was supposed to be alpha after Skunkbear, who had been learning nothing but hunting and toughness from their father. Molder could hardly comprehend it as his brother brought back first small bits of prey, rabbits and pheasants, and then salves for his swollen paw, his various cuts and scrapes. That night, they melted snow in their mouths for water, and huddled together in a small copse of grass. It wasn't a month of horrible treatment for Darlington, but Molder felt that for the first time, his brother understood what he had gone through.