[ A LITTLE WARMER NOW — PRACTICING ]

[WINTERWOLF]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]One would expect everything to change when you died. Death was the end, it was final. And to cross that line and come back was something that should alter the very foundation of the universe. That was what Winterwolf had been taught, in these distant, dreary memories that he can't quite place. Death was inevitable and unavoidable. Yet here he stood. The lion was a massive figure, scrawled over with scars of all sorts. It's a life well lived, but the marks he carries now don't tell the full story. Before this was a wolf with pale, cold-colored fur and a dangerous strength. It had not been enough to save him then, and he doubts that it would be enough to save him again. So in a way, dying had changed nothing. He shifts bodies, spends time getting used to them, pulls his life apart bit by bit and tries to make sense of it again. So far, he's gotten nowhere. He's not sure he ever will, but he's willing to give it a try. What else could he do?

He's found, so far, that he does his best thinking when his paws are busy. Outside of the observatory, the american lion had set up a sort of training dummy out of dicks and spare cloth. It was no masterpiece, but Winter has no intention of allowing it to see tomorrow anyway. Already it's taken a beating, cloth unraveling at its abdomen and side where deadly claws had slashed through. He had been at it for a while now, just long enough to warm up his muscles. For a while, he'd tried to go easy on the poor thing, worried that it wouldn't last the entire session, but something hot begins to boil in Winterwolf's chilled heart, and the lion withdraws, shifting his weight to his hind legs for one last pounce, his paws connecting with rough burlap and raking downwards. A misshapen lump is all that meets the ground. Winter huffs, clearly disgusted. Nothing quite matched up to a full spar in his eyes. Then again, he's not certain he would trust his weight to anyone here just yet. This will have to do.

[MOONMADE]

[size=9pt]Inevitability and scars. Funny this was what was on the stranger's mind, because, for Moon, these two topics in particular had been all he'd thought about, these past few days. How death loved to take the few things he treasured and how scars loved to mold themselves into his flesh so regularly. How futile it was to run from his past and how the eventual return of what made him wake in a cold sweat every night would come, raising it's ugly head over the horizon soon enough, and up until then, it was only a waiting game. So he'd lie in the dirt and watch a stranger tear a dummy to bits, let his recklessness take the wheel and be the dramatic adolescent the movies spoke of.

"You need a better punching bag." Comes his voice, raspy with exhaustion. The side of his face is freshly stitched up, skin knitted back together messily after yesterday's ordeal, and, complete with the ribs that poke out from his sides and the gaunt look he'd carried around with him, lately, Moon was not looking like the world's most imposing opponent. But there was an electricity in his veins, fear that ran, steady, up and down his spine, and if he didn't move, soon, he'd surely lose it. He drags himself up from the ground, saunters forward. "And I'm about the only thing 'round here close to your size. Wanna' get your paws on something real? Usually, the only thing off limits is the face -- delicate merchandise -- but this is a special occasion. Do your worst."

— TAGS