[center][h1][color=#C84127]Yoska Petulengro[/color][/h1][/center]

[color=#C84127]T[/color]he midday sun was warm as it spread across the ground. A nice breeze rustled the tall, dry grass. White flowers that sat on tall stalks swayed gently back and forth. A few clouds slowly blotted out the sun, casting a shadow on the peaceful little meadow that hid in the forest. It was known by few other than the wolves, whose territory it sat dangerously close to. The late summer had brought blooms of golden rod and Queen Anne's lace, making a bright mixture of yellow and white. A few other wild flowers mixed in, adding some red and purples. But towards the middle of the field, a small patch of brown stuck out.

The small brown wolf was a rather pitiful sight. He was a bit too skinny, and his milk chocolate brown fur was messy and a little matted. He was busy digging at the ground, his paws caked with dirt from the errand. He would dig, then chew, then dig some more until he pulled up his prize: scraggly wild carrot roots. It was hardly a meal fit for a carnivore, but for a desperately hungry soul, it would do. They were fairly easy to find, even if they tasted like dirt and held little nutrition pound for pound. 

The field was dotted with the freshly dug holes that the wolf had been working on. His snout was coated with dirt, which he would sneeze off every once and a while. It seemed like he had been working on this meal for the better part of the morning. Being the poor hunter that he was, it took a [i]lot [/i]of wild tubers to keep him relatively fed. 

The wolf was something of a waif. A loner that wandered just outside of the local pack's territory. He was skittish and generally malnourished; not exactly someone a pack would look for to strengthen their numbers. That was why he stayed just out of arm's reach, too shy to actually approach the wolves to seek their approval, which he was sure they would deny him if they didn't just outright pity him. 

He got by mostly by luck and the occasional handout. The young wolf would occasionally wander into town in his human form, just as pitiful was his wolf one, and rifle through donation boxes and restaurant dumpsters. The clothes he wore were usually too big for him, and he was often coated in a thin layer of dirt. He usually only made an appearance in town in the early mornings or later hours, when most of the people were at home and not out and about. This wasn't by accident. The waif had learned by trial and error that other people posed a threat to him, and it was better to not take a chance on who was good and who was bad. Some people would offer him money to buy himself a meal or other necessities, and others threatened to call the police on him if he didn't keep moving. This was why he preferred to live in the woods, in his wolf form. He gained less attention that way. When the occasional pack wolf would try to approach him, he would shy away and run. His wolf instincts told him that he needed a pack to thrive, but his human experience told him to be afraid. 

So the timid little wolf would skirt around the territory that belonged to the pack, living off of field mice, nuts, and wild roots.