Mythra

[Ðracøwulf]

"May your road wander... Wander back to me."

Mythra Wanderlust

Mythra, Myth

Three and a half years

Timber/Gray Wolf; Canis lupus

Female

Aedan, God of Fire



. . . Mythra has the build and musculature of a long-term wanderer - fairly lean, neither exceptionally strong nor weak; built simply to excel at survival. She was born to meet the minimum requirements of self-sufficiency.
. . . While her primary coat color is a charcoal black, it is flecked with "burnt red." Her markings consist of red "tear stain" patterns beneath her eyes, red chin fur, red chevrons just above her paws, and a black cross-like pattern on her face and muzzle. Her face is also framed in red. Her eyes are golden-yellow.
Eyes: Yellow
Coat: Black; dark red markings & overtones
Dimensions: 30 inches tall, 5.5 feet long, 95 pounds



Mythra is generally quite calm, quiet, and reserved - until pressed. She is not in the slightest afraid of defending herself; while she declines from instigating conflict, she does not run from it. She is very thoughtful, spiritual, and philosophical, sometimes losing herself in her own thoughts. Quite perceptive of others, Mythra in some ways prides herself on her ability to intuitively understand the character, trustworthiness, and motives of others - not specifically, of course, but generally: she intuitively discerns for herself whether or not someone is worthy of her trust and companionship. Mythra is also wildly passionate and often stubborn. So long as evidence and experience convince her of her correctness, she will not be moved. She stands behind her decisions and convictions. That passion and pigheadedness translates into fierce tenacity in a fight, when the chips are down - she is not afraid of pain nor death, and she fights to the finish. Mythra is very loyal and trustworthy to those she has befriended, but friendship and trust in the opposite direction take her a great while to build up sturdily. While she is generally kind, she often comes off as cold or unfeeling. She can at times be brutally honest and straight forward, but just as easily turn a cryptic phrase at the drop of a dime.



I Love:

• Living
  
• Hunting
  
• Wolfsong
  
• Others

I Hate:

• Cowardice
  
• Thoughtlessness
  
• Pretentiousness
  
• Cruelty for it's own sake

Father: Lordan Wanderlust
Mother: Sirensong
Siblings: An older brother, Nicolai


None

None



. . . My family has been a line of wanderers for as long as any of us could remember. We never stayed anywhere for very long - not because we were useless, or traitors. But because it was our nature. To wander, roam - it is in our blood. My mother always said to my father, when we would steal away in the dead of the night; "We come with nothing but our own strength, Lordan, and we take it with us, and nothing more, when we leave." It took my whole life to understand what that meant. My brother Nicolai... He learned it first, and he learned it well.
. . . "Trust exhausts us," he said to me. We had long since found ourselves on our own, migrating. Mother and father had taken their final journey the winter before. I knew Nicolai meant to leave me too. He stood there so solemnly, his face dripping from the rain blowing in the round opening to our borrowed den. I remember wanting to cry - but Wanderlusts do not cry. We don't say goodbye. We just leave. "There's only so much of our spirit to spread around," Nicolai said. I wanted to leap on top of him, force him to stay with me - but my legs refused to move. He couldn't leave me. He was all I had. He stared at me - I knew already how much I would miss his gold-flecked green eyes. There was a sad smile on his wet lips. "I love you, sis." The tip of his tail twitched. "May your road wander."
. . . And he left me. I prayed for all I was worth. The gods only know how long I cried after him, to "wander back to me." But Nicolai could not hear my songs that night, nor any night since.
. . . That was over a year ago. There were times, in my wanderings, that I could have sworn I was following his paw-prints, unbearably close behind, but just out of reach of him. But Nicolai made me strong, in the time I had him. Dearest mother, bravest father - they taught me well. I go on. Surviving. Serving where I can. It is not the way of the Wanderlust to search, to move with too much direction. But I keep my eyes and my spirit open, hoping.

---

In "Real" Life..
My Name is: Erynn - AKA Dracowulf / "Draco." I also sometimes go by the names of some of my best characters on occasion - Nyre & Khiyda Zakar (KZ, Kayzi) blah blah...

Age: 19

Experience: Writing - since I could hold a crayon. Role Playing for at least 5-6 years.

A Taste...

Don't leave me... Nicolai... No... Don't leave!

Mythra cried out with a yelp of pain, shocking herself into wakefulness. The earth around her had been stirred by the passion of her nightmare; her paws tense and covered in dust as her splayed claws dug into the ground. She pressed her golden eyes shut in shame, praying silently to the gods that she had not wakened the few struggling members of the small family pack she had been blessed to find. Flame and heartache erupted in her mind's eye, and behind the flames, the face of Nicolai. Brother... Why did you go?

"And where?" Mythra whispered to herself, rising from the dusty bowl she had carved out with her paws in her sleep. Her dark, reddish shape rose from the small collection of slumbering bodies, weary and hungry. She had come to them only a fortnight before, traveled with them, hunted with them. They had only just come to trust her among them. Yes, she had given of herself: given of what skill and strength she had, in return for a brief time of companionship and relative safety. She had come with nothing but her own strength to offer - and she would leave with nothing more, and nothing less. "Only so much," Mythra sighed, looking down the red tear stains on her muzzle at a rather scrawny young pup, sleeping fitfully against his mother's breast. She pressed her wet nose against his fuzzy cheek. May your road wander, little one. But always back home.

She turned from the sleeping family, having nothing more to offer and no heart to take from them - and left. She did not look back, neither did she really know in what direction she headed. But as the earliest rays of morning light began to peer out over the horizon line, Mythra raised her dark muzzle to the heavens, and sang the mournful notes of the wanderer; not of goodbye, but simply of tears.

Sheet © Draco