Estarreja

I focus on breeding low-gen wolves and don't participate in the R&C community in an official capacity, so I don't resell T3s I find back to their chasers. However, I do R&C T3s myself—I just don't track them down or take them back. If you're the chaser, though, I'd be happy to credit you! Just send proof, and I'll include you in their footnote.





✖️no heritage, raffle eye megalodon with octa-merle

Beneath the canopy of a world forgotten by mercy, where the air hung dense with sorrow and the earth echoed with the cries of the condemned, there lay a realm neither fully mortal nor wholly spectral. The House of Dumuzi, that infernal order of nether-wolves, prowled its broken corridors. They moved as shadows writ in flame, their forms fluid as smoke, terrible as visions drawn from a fevered dream. Their howls splintered the veil between the living and the damned, filling the void with a music that both mourned and mocked creation.

Each wolf was a tapestry of sin and salvation—beasts whose coats shimmered with ash-grey fire, their eyes glowing with the molten glow of brimstone. Their fur was matted with the ichor of torment; their jaws, forever dripping with the taste of a penance long denied. These were no ordinary creatures, but shards of ancient grievance, echoes of souls lost to labyrinthine purgatories. They had names once, in some distant, mortal past, but such things had sloughed away like old skin, leaving behind titles as terrible as prophecy: Carrion-Lord, Maw of Ruin, Keeper of Ashes.

They roamed through a wilderness carved by Dantean imagination, a hellscape of Boschian splendor where the rivers ran red not with blood but with the ink of forgotten prayers. Here, the trees bore fruit that whispered secrets no ear dared listen to, and mountains spiraled upwards into impossible geometries, each peak an altar for suffering. The wolves moved through this chaos with a strange and eerie purpose, their paths weaving through infernal forests and wastelands of despair, as if seeking the heart of some greater damnation.

At their center was their king—a wolf crowned not in gold but in the brittle, blackened laurels of regret. He was Dumuzi, a name older than sorrow, his massive form wreathed in the soft glow of smoldering coals. His voice was a quiet conflagration, a thing that both scorched and soothed, and when he sang, it was not to the moon but to the abyss itself. For his was not a pack of blood and kinship, but of oaths broken and debts unpaid, a brotherhood forged in the fire of betrayal and bound to the wheel of eternity.

And yet, there was beauty in the horror. In the wolves' relentless descent, their infernal order found something akin to grace. Their movements were poetry in ruin, each leap and snarl an elegy for the damned. They hunted not to feed, for what sustenance could the nether-realm provide, but to perpetuate their own punishment. They circled the lakes of despair, their reflections fractured upon waters thick with oil and shadow. They gathered at the spires of hollowed-out cathedrals where faceless statues wept tears of molten gold, their cries rising as a hymn to whatever gods still dared listen.

They were not demons, though their essence reeked of infernal fire. They were not angels, though their howls carried the echoes of something once holy. They were wolves—fallen, cursed, eternal. Their teeth carried the bite of every sin; their eyes bore the weight of a thousand lifetimes of grief. And as they prowled deeper into the infinite night, the House of Dumuzi wove its purpose from the strands of its own undoing, ever searching, ever hunting for the thing that might finally break their endless cycle.

But there was no end to this spiral, no dawn to banish the eternal dusk of their dominion. For they were the keepers of that dread place where hope dared not tread, the infernal wolves who ran as shadows of guilt through the forests of perdition. And as they moved, the very air seemed to whisper their prophecy, their curse, their dark and terrible song:

"Run forever, O wolves of Dumuzi, through the ash and fire, through the void and the cry. For you are the hunters and the hunted, the damned and the dreamers, bound to this circle, bound to this night."