sɪᴏᴍᴀ

Second Scout of Dark Isle
"see-oh-ma"

_____

Sioma finds pack politics deeply unpleasant. Often enough, the heated conversations take a turn to where the wolf considers the debate horribly unsettling. There were big conversations, like how many pups should be brought to this land against Winter outlook, and small ones, such as what should be for dinner. Sioma didn't care. She hated them all.

Long ago, Sioma was a promising hunter. The golden wolf would overtake the final Chaser, surging through the forest at the heels of some poor fading buck. Her tight muscles and innate strength could take down the largest of prey, and she was good at it. She had always shown promise as young apprentice, and the leader of her old pack had personally overseen Sioma's training as a Finisher. Her success in the hunt was a cornerstone of her quick rise in the hierarchy.

But again, Sioma hated politics. So when the Stalker would squabble amongst the Chasers over which trail led to the highest chance, or what the weather might dictate on the hunt, or how the pack should pick one prey over another, Sioma had had enough. The young prodigy, master hunter, found herself walking away from it all. And walking. And she kept walking until she came to the edge of the Earth, where land fell to sea, and a Dark Isle sat across the straight. So Sioma gave up walking, and swam to the other side.

Sioma's ears flick forward as she rests. Many meters away, a pronghorn has risen from the long prairie grass. Stars litter the sky above, casting a soft glow across the sleepy expanse. She notes the injured hock on the pronghorn, easy prey given the circumstance. It would not take much to finish the doe off. This time around, however, the golden wolf is unbothered. She is alone, there is no hunt. Glancing towards the dazzling sky, Sioma pinpoints her directions. The wolf now follows true to the Northern star, scouting lands near and far on her own.

There is no one to fight when you are the only one here. Sioma rises, and keeps walking.