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(Lycari)
A thousand miles or more he had walked, through forest and meadow, over mountains and dunes. Silently he had stood at what seemed like the edge of the world, gazing out across an endless sea. His paws hurt, but he never suffered hunger or thirst. His native strength and natural knowledge had kept him alive throughout the years since he had gone on this futile search.
He had crept close to towns, but never went in, allowing his magical essence to comb the inhabitants for individuals like him and his tribe. Deftly he had avoided notice, with both his natural ability and the magic that was born into him. All the while he had searched for others of his kind, aside from the pitiful few he had left behind in the tundra, in their scraped together community.
Lycari's people, wolven shapeshifters, had always lived by natural law. The fact that they could become their alter-egos -- wolves -- at will had made them a valuable commodity in the magical community. His tribe had been attacked and while they had fought back, their peaceful nature drove them to run from the assault while their leaders, Lycari included, stood fast as a rear guard.
The only thing better than freedom was death and Lycari was the only member of the tribe to follow his people into the tundra. Here they planned to make a new life. There were so few of them, only a couple of males, three youngsters and a handful of females. Fortunately, the headfemale had survived, as well as Lycari, their only medicine man.
While the ability to shift lived in every wolven shapeshifter's blood, Lycari's innate magical abilities set him aside as special and although the tribe was upset to lose him, albeit temporarily, they recognized his value as a warrior and investigator, so he had set out on this seemingly futile search for more of his kind. After a year or more, he hadn't found a single wolven soul.
The great white wolf found himself wandering into a forest that stank of magic. Perhaps this was a place where he could rest for a while and build up his strength for his continuing trek. With hope in his heart, the weary wolf settled himself in a copse of bushes near a tree, well hidden from prying eyes.
He was licking his sore and bleeding paws when there was a bit of an upset coming from the next glade over. Slowly and carefully, he rose from his spot and slunk closer to the noise. The closer he got, the more magic he smelled. He remained hidden because some of the scent carried a noxious essence, barely contained. This reek rose higher the nearer he got.
Under a bush, not far from the scene, the white wolf sunk onto his belly and watched a squirrel -- glory be! -- tell off a mage from which the nasty black reek arose. Curious, that!