Schizo

Schizo was about 5 or 6 years old now. He was pure white with red eyes and blackish paws. He lived with the Valkhama pack but hadn't really been interacting with any of them. Over time he hadn't really remember entirely why he was here. Something about a female he thought. Then the racooons or monsters would come and he would snap out.

Multiple personaliteies were at work as well. He had a cool and collected, A vicious and hateful you name it. Today so far he was calm and found himself looking for others in the pack that he belonged to. Course he had scared some of them off cause of his hallucinations but he didn't care that much.

storm call

Insane. Crazy. Psychotic. Some of the many words that could've been applied to Schizo. Everyone knew the troubles the wolf lived with. He could never get away from them. Unfortunate, yes. Storm Call felt a bit of sympathy for the crazy wolf. Unlike some of the pack members, Storm Call wasn't frightened much by Schizo's episodes.

When the son of Windsong and Tahti came across the white wolf, he greeted him softly. "Hello, Schizo," he warmly woofed, standing his ground a few paces away from the wolf. "How are you?"

Schizo

Schizo didn't expect to find anyone. He was sure that when ever he chose to approach them they took flight. That's when his red eyes caught another approaching him. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of him approaching. He picked through all the names in his mind and found his Storm call.

Hello Storm CallHe spoke calmly and sat down. I am fine , I am fine, you?He spoke.

storm call

Rolling his shoulders, Storm Call gave a shrug to Schizo's question. "I'm fair...just awaiting the hell of winter..." Storm replied with a sideways frown. Winters were always brutal here in the valley. Storm remembered the snow storm when he was a pup. The way the wind beat on the land, making the air howl. That was how he was named, and, perhaps, in a tribute to his sire, Windsong. The brute felt his stomach give a painful twist with the thought of his now-deceased father, an old thorn that on a rare occasion still rattled him. Returning to reality, Storm said, "I always fear for the pack every winter...but, time and time again, we've pulled through. Maybe, because of all the uncertainty and war in the valley, I'm just cursed with paranoia."