Profile of Graeme

Graeme is large in the sense that he's tall, with the sleek musculature of a wolf accustomed to surviving on his own merit. He's made up of angles, quite narrow and lanky, with a vulpine face. He has a long, narrow muzzle that doesn't often show a smile. His fur is typical of a timber wolf, made up of layers of sandy brown, cream, a hint of ruddy mahogany, and charcoal. Graeme's eyes are a lovely peridot, bright beneath a brow that is often knit in brooding thought.

- based on his affinity, has aspiration to become a messenger bird trainer and wants to attend the College but isn't sure if Toren would approve
- quiet and intuitive, but not sensitive, per se
- adaptive, survivalist, a little sarcastic but is passive aggressive about it instead of confrontational
- empathetic but doesn't really care for those who lack common sense or make the same mistakes over and over again
- prefers to be in the background but sometimes wonders if he would do a better job at leading than his sister, but is mostly relieved that he hasn't had to really worry about any of that
- finds Ciara a little tiresome because she's reckless (sometimes jokes that she's a changeling); he's still quite fond of her and shares her love of nature
- thinks Toren is too hard on her, especially after everything they lost in the Rebellion, and wishes their father would be a little more flexible

Graeme shivers, tucking his paws beneath his chest as he crouches beside a gorse bush, its multitudes of yellow flowers pressing against the side of his face. He's peering into the soft blue shadows of night, desperately trying to pick out a familiar shape in the tumble of scrub and heather and stone. He's lost, led astray by the wicked flame of pride; it's one that burns especially hot in youth, although those who believe they knew him might be shocked to see him succumb. He is always quiet and cool and even-tempered in comparison to his sister, but tonight is different.

Tonight, he means to prove himself by the old ways.

Too young to understand that it's not necessary, especially for those who don't intend to pursue the path of the spirits, Graeme had slipped from the den several hours before. A single angry shout was all he'd heard before breaking into a headlong sprint and plunging himself into the wilds. He'd spent a while wandering before settling down to sleep, but the incessant moan of the cold wind soon shook him awake. Now he's here, pressing himself into the golden embrace of gorse-blossoms, because he's certain he saw one of Them.

Dawn is approaching swiftly, but fear chokes the young wolf, who focuses on little else but the dark blur of movement just beyond the next boulder. There's a scrabbling sound, and a soft, throaty chitter. He inhales deeply, but can't catch a scent. He uses the breath to steel himself, rocking back on his hind legs before springing forward, biting down on the shivering shriek of fearful excitement that threatens to ruin his advantage. Rounding the edge of the tall bluestone boulder, something black flutters and squawks in indignant anger at the unexpected appearance of the clumsy, half-grown pup.

Graeme blinks slowly as the morning sun finally crests the ridge, and he finds himself staring at a fledgling raven. The bird stares back, head tilting, beak clattering with another croak of reprimand. A voice in the distance makes Graeme turn an ear, recognizing the voice calling him home, but does not yet leave. His gaze moves slowly around the small glen hidden behind the boulder, and a smile unfurls on his muzzle. White heather, turned buttery yellow in the light of dawn, sways in the wind. "Thank you," he murmurs, addressing the young raven, who caws throatily in reply. Graeme turns away reluctantly, but with each stride, his mood improves.

He's found his Affinity.