Behind these shy yet blazing eyes, there lurks a mind as sharp as ice. I am a veiled creature, a quiet force which creeps below the stars in the clear winter sky. I do not raise my noble chin to chant my sorrows to the moon. She does not hear my hushed ache, for she is burdened by those who lustily howl and wail skyward. She hangs above the broken lives below, and like the crystal rivers, bathes their wounds in soft streams of light. I do not yearn for her brief remedy, for though the glow is bewitching and tender, in these lands there lives a greater spirit.
I, the solitary beast, am the most tenacious of them all. But if my ancient scars could sing they would whisper into my ear the lullabies of tribe and truth that I yearn to hear, and my soul would blossom like the patient trees of spring. Through knotted woodland passages do I wander, straying, and yet never led astray. The wild and dangerous lurking in the shadows conceal themselves, wanting to enshroud onlookers in fear, but they hide, cowards behind a curtain of nightfall, who are feared more than they are fearsome.
I do not hide, I do not hunt, I am the wolf that walks alone.