It was hard to note the scars hidden under fur. A lot of clanmates: made of scale or fur carried with them wounds of battle: it was a way of life here and it was as reflected in the people as it were reflected in the lands. The desert was a harsh climate- and the people here were blunt because of it. No, not blunt: yet they all learned how to survive under the strain, a lack of food, resource, they learned to fight for resources, fight against the dying of their own home: either too stubborn or too ignorant to see the death that linger in the air. It was cloying, the scent of it.

Virgil’s gift was her sight- too see what other’s couldn’t: the miniscule twitch in a muscle projected emotion far more than anyone would believe: Virgil watched other’s keenly for this reason. Enjoyed the feeling of surprise that halted them- a stutter in their movements causing a flush of joy in the young pup. But the same could be said about scars. They were hard to see sometimes the fur of her crewmates covered it, but Virgil could spot them: the slight distortion in fur that prevailed against all reason what was right there in front of their faces. Scars. Wounds.

Scars led to infection, more times than could be counted. ( it was time to change that ) The only way she knew how to heal in infection was crude: you rip it out, and let it heal all over again.

Within the jungle of the pitt, along the temples was the curious whelp. Green-yellow eyes looking down at her paws as she glanced at the deck of cards in her hand. A bundle that was thicker than a normal suit. It was clumsy- the way she held them: shuffled them. But as she separated the stacks and re-combined them spoke with a familiarity.

/can request readings here!