emrys

Like Cain, he wanders, not pursued by wrath or cursed by gods, but marked by the quiet exile of one who no longer belongs to the world he walks. There is no bloodied trail behind him, no fable of betrayal carved into the bones of the earth, only the subtle gravity of absence, the kind that clings to empty places and forgotten names.

He is not a predator, nor a scavenger. He does not hunger in the way others do. His purpose- if it ever existed, has eroded into motion. He traverses the land like a forgotten psalm whispered in wind, like smoke rising from a fire long extinguished. There is no destination. No tether.

He moves because stillness would be a kind of death more complete than any wound.

He leaves no den, no line of descent. The places he passes do not remember him in scent or sound, only in silence- an unnatural hush that lingers after he has gone.

In him lives the myth of the eternal wanderer; the one who sees without being seen, who exists between the heartbeat and the breath. He is not lost, for that would suggest there is somewhere to return to. He is not cursed, for there is no anger in his exile.

He is simply a wolf who walks. And walks. And walks.