Artok Arrluk limped his way over mountains and through fields. As he always did. Body littered with scars testament of a true survivor. A man been given a shit hand and changed it up. He did his best with what the gods had sought to give him. Which bitterly was scraps.

He found himself at the edge of a pack lands. And he stared at the border line. Didn't cross. Did he want to try and live with others be a part of something. Or was his bitter heart too fsr gone amd had no room. Questions he couldn't answer.

He lifted his head and howled out for an audience at least. Then schooled his face into a blank expression and waited.