Become the sort of person he wants to be.

He's not sure what that means. He's been quiet, more reclusive than usual, contemplating what the hell he possibly wants. At one time he wanted to speak for the pack. At one point he wanted to be an oracle. Is he still worthy of either? The fur has mostly grown over the scars, leaving only the faintest traces of the fire's wrath. He had been told by the Ace of Spades that he could leave, and for a moment tangled in his arms, he thought he should.

But he didn't. Sreda came and he went back with her.

And now he's adrift. Purpose is such a fleeting, horrendous thing. Is he meant to have it? Or is he simply a cosmic accident like the Ace of Spades suggested? He's not sure.

He wanders the brim, a place that hadn't been here in the times of his youth. The world had shifted. Perhaps he had shifted, too, and his purpose has disappeared. Maybe that's why the demons have won. Sighing, he stops to pat his paw three times on an overturned log. Then he circles three times. His world calms a bit. He plops down, then notices the scent of another.

He's being watched. For how long? He's so in his head... And it could be someone with ill intent, someone here to rip his throat out--

Or just a wanderer. Sense tells him to calm down.