|Name Origin||"Sköll"; Norse|
|Date of Birth||June 5, 2001|
|Date of Death||August 21, 2008|
|Joining date||April 7, 2008|
Skoll is a warrior from afar, who came to Bleeding Souls seeking his great-great-grandfather, a wolf and monster of legend named VoidFane. His time in the souls' valley was fraught with violence as he sought to bring justice and peace to a land torn by enmity and lawlessness. In many instances he succeeded, other times he did not. Some saw him as a dedicated and selfless hero, while others saw him as a brutal monster. Whatever view anyone took of him, it was an unarguable fact that an atrocious body count followed him wherever he went.
Skoll was given a proper burial on Phoenix Valley territory by Iskata Sadira. A few months later a funeral was held on pack territory by Jantus in October 2009 with many of his surviving friends and family. It was approved and supervised by Valley leader Jefferson Soul.
On this page... (hide)
- 1. Biography
- 2. Lifestyle
- 3. Family
- 4. Past Lovers
- 5. Luperci Forms
- 6. Scars
June 2001--August 2002 Skoll was born into StoneTree, a small pack which scraped a living off of a barren wasteland of tundra, eating mostly rodents and very rarely larger game, when it ventured within their borders. To withstand the harsh winters and poor food supply, the pack was modeled after an older design, in which only the alpha male and female could bear a litter. Skoll and his two siblings: Skirnir and SnowOwl, were the only surviving pups, born to the alphas Freyr and SkyDance. Freyr was elated to see that he had healthy children, and the pack reveled in the joy of the new life gifted to their leaders.
For a time, all was well within StoneTree. The children had been summer-born, so the cold of their land was fully waned, and they were happy. Freyr was proud of his sons, and loved his daughter dearly, while SkyDance loved most her daughter, with whom she spent much of her time while Freyr raised his boys to be alphas. Their happiness was not lasting, however, for as Freyr's Beta continued to remind his leader, there was not food enough to support three extra mouths. Reluctantly, Freyr began to view his sons in a different light, to look for the differences between them, to discern who had the best chances of surviving alone, outside of the pack's protection.
The lands surrounding StoneTree were harsh and unwelcoming, it would take a hale and hardy wolf to survive alone. SnowOwl was small, but even were she not, the alpha would not take their only daughter away from his mate, whom he loved more than life itself. Thus, as the two boys grew and matured through their first winter, he saw clearly that his golden son, the one he had named Skoll, was the one best suited to survive alone through the bitter trials of the outside world. Thus began Skoll's slow exile.
Freyr stopped looking his son in the eyes, SkyDance would not speak to her son, and the other wolves in the pack quickly followed suit. The boys, now just over a year old, had become great comrades in mischief and make-believe adventures, playing out the stories passed on to them by their mother and father, and it was by this solitary connection that Skoll remained himself, despite the melancholy that had beset him at his parents' odd behavior. It was in this time of great hurt for the pack that Freyr was forced to take his smaller son, Skirnir, aside, and tell him that the time had come to let his brother go. Explaining the reason, it still took much cajoling by his father and mother to make him cooperate. When Skoll discovered that his best friend also would not speak to him, he lashed out in anger and desperation, confusion and despair. His father and Beta set upon him, and in the snapping of their jaws into his flesh the exile was complete. He was no longer a wolf of StoneTree, and was chased for a full mile until he was outside its borders. Tearful, angry, and bleeding, the young wolf turned away, never to be seen in that land again.
August 2002--November 2002 All alone, the strongest of Freyr's sons made his way ever further from the land of his birth. He wept, but he would sooner have his wounds open anew and spare the blood than the water, so ashamed was he of his tears. Everything he loved had been torn away from him, he felt. The golden yearling had been left with naught but the meager skills he'd learned in his short time with his father, and many of those were useless now, now that he would never, could never, become the leader of a pack. For several weeks he existed he knew not where, nor did his family, nor did the neighboring packs know of him. For those weeks, when he lived further from his home than ever he had ventured before, his mind roved wildly in thought, fearing for his future as his hunger worsened, suffering a great maelstrom of hate and envy and despair as he wondered what Skirnir and his parents were doing now back home.
There came a time in the midst of his fevered thoughts that he sought desperately for someone to turn to for help, someone who would save him from his loneliness, from the cruel edge of fate. He recalled his favorite story, one his mother had told him and his brother in happy days now gone, about a wolf who had fled StoneTree long ago. HawkWind had been his name. He had left long ago, but how far had he gone? Skoll didn't know...but another, very serious concern had begun growing in the back of his mind. Winter was coming, and though StoneTree had kept him fed and healthy through the first, he would not survive the second alone.
Seldom had he heard the Beta's remarks that the pack should move south, to better climates, but he did hear them, and with them came the knowledge that in the south he might now find his salvation. If the winters of StoneTree could not be survived alone, then HawkWind, too, must have first traveled southward after he fled. It was with these two thoughts in mind that Skoll determined that he must escape the region of his homeland in order to survive into the coming year. Traveling southward, he kept always an open eye for anything that might fill his empty stomach, desperation in his heart as he felt--day by day--winter creeping closer.
December 2002--February 2003 As fast as the yearling's young legs could carry him, the season moved always faster. The days grew shorter, the winds colder, and soon winter was upon him, as he traveled ever southward. The paths of that part of the world were treacherous, cracked and broken, a wolf had to follow sources of food and water, an ever-winding path that could render a short journey into a long one, and a long journey impossible. So he realized, as his options dwindled, and he found his path clinging to a narrow stream for a constant water supply. He was not alone, for the further south he went, the more wolves he met, drawn to the unfrozen water just as he had been. In truth, it had been a full river at one time, but as the cold overtook all of these wolves, so too did it overtake the river, reducing it to a creek, a mere shadow of its former glory.
Two high ridges rose up on either side, shielding the wolves from the wind, the narrow snaking creek their only lifeline in the treacherous snow, but the wisest wolves knew that the shelter would not last for long. As the bronze youth made his way further and further down, he found an increasing number of small family groups and nomadic packs staking claims on various pieces of the river, and once he reached the front of the line of travelers, he discovered why. The creek ran into the earth...it ran into an estuary! It could not be followed, and so the entire caravan, dozens and dozens of wolves strong, filled with the sick and the desperate who could not survive the winter so far north, were forced to halt their exodus. The events that followed would shape the young wolf profoundly.
As the winter brought its full force to bear on the trapped travelers, it surrounded their sanctuary on all sides with unforgiving winds, and snows so blinding white and fierce that no wolf could see through them. The conifers that rode the ridge of the creek continued to protect the wolves, but even as they felt blessed to be protected from the fury of the storm, their oasis was freezing over. The creek was narrow, and the cold was deep and relentless. Of the dozens of wolves, there were but five fisherman, and a desperate shortage of actual fish swimming the waters. The civil passivity that had been maintained between the groups quickly dissolved for rights to the fisher's catches, the fishers becoming slaves to the strongest of the desperate refugees of the north.
It was one of these fisherman that Skoll inadvertently rescued in his hunger. He was desperate for food and water, but there were but five holes, and too many bellies to feed...oh, too many bellies indeed. Three wolves surrounded the poor man, who had been so far unnoticed by anyone else as he remained far upstream; he had gotten on in his years and had not the will nor the strength to stand against them. They had been taking his catches as he made them, telling him that they would take the meat out of his hide if he stopped. Skoll found them, having been turned away by the crowd at every other fishing hole, and approached them, begging to be fed. It was in a moment of pique, when one of the three told the young wolf that he had to move on, told him to put his tail between his legs and run away, that Skoll killed his first wolf.
His mind had long since forsaken lucid thought, and it was in the desperation of hunger that he first felt HawkWind's gift, the berserk rage, take him. It lasted naught but a few moments, the other wolf had taken on a posture of dominance, his head held high...and the yearling had launched into his throat, removing it with four jerks of his head. Standing there, the madness in his eyes, the blood dripping from his fangs, his visage frightened the two others away, and the fisherman thanked him once his mind had returned, offering him the next catch. While everyone was desperate, there were no fighters in the caravan, just inexperienced thugs, and Skoll and two others fought many of them to defend their own fishing hole. Thus was the beginning of Skoll's life of violence--a thug who fought for his right to meat, as well as for the rights of the fisher and what few other wolves sought to stave off death from his catch. Many wolves died of exposure and starvation at the creek, but Skoll had found a niche, and survived.
February 2003--September 2003 It was not until mid-February that Skoll and the others were finally free to leave the nightmarish tomb of the Creek. Many bodies remained there still, gnawed by hungry and desperate wolves, preserved perfectly by the cruelly cold climate. Eager to be away, Skoll left the friends and allies he had made there, never to see any of them again. This was for the best, he knew...he wanted to forget the Creek, and yet there was an element to it that he did not want to lose. He had killed his first wolf out of anger and desperation, for himself and his raging emotions, a selfish murder for the sake of continued survival; nevertheless, that sad gaggle of wolves that had eventually huddled around the old fisherman had looked to him with admiration and gratitude. He had not been alone in defending that little gap in the ice, but he felt like they had needed him. He felt their affection, and it warmed him against the cold of the land as he traveled across it. Out of that icy hell, he had drawn bravery, and proven his mettle. He had felt weak and frightened, but others had looked up to him, and it had given him strength. He had been a defender of the weak and the starving, driving off those that would fill their bellies to the detriment of the helpless. The look in the eyes of those you turned away when the fisherman could feed no more, the hopeless struggle to be fed by those on the brink of starvation, the desperate fury of the hungry...though the horrors of the Creek still lingered in some corner of his mind, his young mind latched onto the positive, his spirit thriving on the recognition he'd received, and desiring to be looked upon that way again.
Confident in the fury that would take him during each battle, Skoll left the lands of the far north, declaring himself a fighter, a warrior-wolf. It was almost impossible to survive on his own, and so he joined with other wolves at every opportunity. As he traveled south, he found other wandering wolves, and entered agreements with them whenever he could. He was a warrior-wolf, he knew the basics of how to hunt, and could help defend a catch from the greedy. Of course, this only worked so well. His abilities were not congruent with his confidence, and while his berserk rage kept him alive through the bouts he had with the enemies of his temporary allies, he sustained many injuries in the months following the Creek. HawkWind's gift, it would seem, came at a price. Very few wolves were willing to engage him for long after discovering that bestial fury, but throwing his own well-being to the breeze for every fight left his flesh marred and was always draining. Nevertheless, his name grew, and followed him. Before long, his appearance matched his claims of being a warrior-wolf, and with this increased credibility came another increase in confidence. He was proud of his scars, and proud of his rage, and proud of himself and his own good ethics, for while he was monstrous and terrible in battle, he always fought for who he perceived to be the morally justified side.
It was at this time, when his name preceded him in that small part of the wide world, that he was accepted into Autumn Wind, his first true pack since StoneTree. Autumn Wind was in trouble. A neighboring pack, Silverleaf, desired its bountiful land greatly, and had been growing steadily for two generations. Now, with their pack numbering three wolves greater than Autumn Wind, they were growing bold, and the alpha feared that an attack was imminent. Foreseeing this, when the golden wolf appeared on the pack's borders, he was asked if he believed he could make a difference in the events to come. Having never been asked outright for help before, Skoll was pleased, far more than he let on, to accept. He didn't have long to wait. Silverleaf invaded Autumn Wind three days later, after Skoll had been introduced to the other members of the pack, including its guardian, a laughably old wolf named Gronnor. In the battle of Autumn Leaf, there were five deaths. All of these belonged to Silverleaf. Each fighting member performed well, but unexpected contingencies had arisen. Skoll, in his bloodlust, had savaged one enemy, and frightened off another, but lost himself in the emotive fires within. He had turned his claws and fangs on the old wolf, Gronnor. When he came to, Skoll was not only displeased that he had not been the deciding factor in the pack's victory--no, their guardian had outshone him by far--he had also been defeated, easily, by that very same man.
Skoll wasn't certain what his future held for him. The alpha had surely heard what had happened...he didn't know if he was to be driven out of Autumn Wind, or demoted, or simply told that he did his job and to be on his way. He was quite surprised when Gronnor made him an offer. He could be on his way and leave with the gratitude of the pack, or he could stay, under the condition that he remain as the older wolf's apprentice, that he would learn and do what he asked of him. Eager to redeem himself and make up for his mistakes, Skoll accepted. In April of 2003, his training began, and it would continue for six months, into September of that year.
September 2003--December 2003 Gronnor taught his young pupil many things. The anatomy of the werewolf, where its vulnerabilities were, what it was capable of, how one goes about fighting in different situations. Teeth were for four legs, hands and claws were for two. Skoll came to know that the rage that had made him infamous could be turned against him, that an angry opponent was an easily managed one. He learned to move as the old wolf moved, he learned to strike as he was taught, and the grappling and throwing techniques. He learned to analyze, and to think like the old wolf thought. He was transformed from the ground up into the fighter that had bested him, his old style traded for this much improved and technical mode of fighting. More than that, Gronnor taught him honor, taught him when it was acceptible to use his newfound skills, and when it wasn't. Taught him what it meant to be responsible with his newfound power. It was at the end of the sixth month of training that the old wolf told him to move on, that he had learned well and quickly, and that the final step in his training was to put all he'd learned into practice. Thanking the aged wolf for all he had done, Skoll left, a changed man.
Two months went by, during which time Skoll offered help to those that needed it. The lands were not rife with violence, but he traveled a great distance in that time, and was able to ply his skills. In early December, Skoll came across a small pack, six wolves together called Pale Moon. They had no personal enemies, but were willing to share tales with him around a fire. During the exchange, Skoll shared tales of his deeds and adventures before arriving in that part of the world, and the younger brother of the pack leader was entranced. Stories had always been a fascination of Skoll's, and he excelled in their telling. When Skoll left the next day, the young wolf, Art, implored him to take him under his wing. Seeing something familiar in those eyes, Skoll accepted. The two left the packlands, and Skoll resolved to teach him everything he could remember of what he had learned.
Art was a smaller wolf, and not everything that Skoll did well was as easy for his protege. It took time, but Art had a desire to learn as strong as Skoll's had been, and even though the golden wolf was not so good a teacher as Gronnor had been, he did his best. Art's fighting style evolved differently from Skoll's, a more cautious approach with quick, darting blows before backpedalling out of reach again. It would take work, but eventually Skoll was confident that the fear would leave him. Little did he know that the process through which Art would find his courage would be more brutal and scarring than anything he had yet experienced.
January, 2004 Skoll and Art trained rigorously in their short time together, but Skoll felt that his own skills were not being properly put to use. Art had been impressed with him, but he had encountered no worthy test of his skills since leaving Autumn Leaf. It was a month after the two had departed Art's home when they came across a group of wolves, comprised mostly of young males, that called themselves BloodScar. The two wolves were allowed to mingle with its members, provided they took no food, and learn what they could. As it turned out, the dozen they had met at the border--large enough to be a pack unto themselves, but actually only about a quarter of the total group--were delighted to hear that they two were traveling warriors, and asked if they would speak with their leader, Sirius.
Accepting this invitation, Skoll quickly met their leader. Sirius the Giant was a white wolf of epic proportions. Never measured, Skoll could only guess that his height had to be eleven, perhaps twelve feet if he stood straight. Not that he ever did, even though he spent all of his time in were-form, such bulk did not easily lend itself to upright motion. Sirius told him a story, a tale of a great kingdom presided over by a powerful leader named Malros. The warrior-king had been slain, and while the suspected culprit had been killed, his four sons now vied for his vast expanses of land. Initially, it had been divided evenly, but not every land was as fertile as the next, and soon disputes arose. Hard times made one of the four desperate for more, and the others were conflicted about what should be done. What began as a family squabble soon erupted into violence. One of the sons was killed, and it was his retainers that founded the pack called BloodScar, to remind the others of what they had done. Sirius had taken on the mantle of leadership for that son, and now prepared to take his people into battle with the other three brothers and their people, over the land their father had ruled.
Moved by the tale, by the betrayal, Skoll resolved that this was indeed a noble cause, and that the survivors of this 'royal line' needed to be punished. Sirius resolved to divide the land once he took control, to abolish Malros' line for good, as it had lost whatever greatness the patriarch had possessed. Skoll agreed with this rationale, and at the behest of this giant of a man, he became the sergeant of his forces, dozens of wolves would be trained by Skoll as he had trained Art. They would be a swift and terrible force, they would quickly take over the others, and bring justice to the defiled sanctity of this land. He became friends with another hired warrior, named Xander. Unlike Skoll, Xander used a human weapon, called a Katana, some sort of spiritual sword he had received in a far-flung part of the world.
Alas, the war was not over quickly as Skoll had envisioned. Rival 'experts' had been hired by the other three packs at various points during the conflict: Galdra the spear-maiden, Gabred the Fist, Yvret One-Eye, Alketor, Phrexus, Klavix the Dog, and a woman of singular insanity, the coyote SteelRose. Each had their own reputation, though the monstrous form of Sirius was still the single most feared on the battle field, Skoll was amidst people just as dangerous as he was, perhaps moreso, since many of them were trained with weapons, and he was not. When the battle commenced, it became immediately evident that those with weapons were at a definite advantage, and he and Art had to learn on the fly how to use whatever weapons they could salvage from the surrounding ruins of an ancient human city. Many wolves were never lucky enough to find weaponry, and had to trust in their claws and teeth, or claim human weaponry from fallen enemies and comrades. Skoll found a pair of axes. His protege, a set of kitchen knives. Skoll's reputation grew from successfully killing Phrexus and Alketor. Galdra too had fallen by his axe, a wolfess with whom he had shared a few precious nights of passion before the war broke out in full. Despite their promises to avoid each other on the battlefield, she had turned her spear on him when one of her students had engaged him. Her death was the single greatest regret he had over the war.
To make matters worse, it became clear before war's end that Sirius was not what he had appeared. A dark ambition rested in his heart, and in fact he was the last living descendant of HawkWind's mortal enemy, GaleCrow. Skoll began to see a malice growing in him that he had not detected before, and it was a poison that Xander noticed as well. Skoll's friend and ally confronted Sirius, but was met with a quick death by the massive were's bare hands, his forearms snapped even as they held his sword and head twisted around. The war was a dark time for Skoll, and a darker one for Art, who--early on--was taken as a prisoner of war, and tortured for information and amusement by a rival pack. He had found his courage there through desperation, and when Skoll and Xander had rescued him, he was a changed wolf, skittish and fearful, but preternaturally violent when pushed. Art lost faith in Skoll when he would not turn against Sirius for killing their friend, Sirius being a creature that Skoll both knew he could not kill, and was not certain he would be completely justified in killing. After all, justice still needed to be brought to the land, and neither he nor Sirius could win the war without the other.
After the war, Skoll and Art went their separate ways. The way of the warrior had not been so heroic as either of them had thought, and Art had paid for his mistake in pain, and with the better part of his sanity. Skoll had helped win the war, and yet he felt this had been his greatest failure yet. Knowing that Sirius would not do as he had promised, but also that the he would not stand against him when he reneged, Skoll left the war-torn territory shortly after the war, having lost faith, lost his protege, lost his friend, and lost his love.
March 2004--May 2004 A period of depression and bitterness followed for the golden warrior. He wandered the lands, feeling an unfamiliar darkness building in his heart. He still helped those in need on the rare occasion that he found his skills were needed, but when he employed his violent art, he often failed to check his hand, indulging in brutality above and beyond what the situation called for. He found a strange compromise between Gronnor's honor and the viciousness of HawkWind's gift, and with one part of him caught up in his teachings and the other in the dark seed of his bloodline, he traveled as an enigmatic soldier, an avatar of justice and of vengeance, a man who would be salvation for the down-trodden, but only by becoming a demon to those of evil intent.
During this time, Skoll did his best to follow rumors and old legends about the shadow wolf, the demon in the dark, the night wraith, who he knew to be his ancestor, HawkWind. These stories led him to a land fraught with bloodshed and hatred, a land ravaged by a conflict that was named the Raven Feud. Skoll learned of the tale, that two brothers of the ruling family had seen their father slain by the other, or so they both claimed, and each sought to avenge their father through the death of his brother. His soul still stained by his great failure in the Four Pack War, Skoll decided to assist their effort at their behest, hoping to be of some assistance to those he'd met, to perhaps redeem himself for his perceived failures with a second try.
When Skoll first entered the fray, he found himself to be well beyond the standard rank and file in terms of abilities. He was respected for this, and given high status in the war-time pack which had been assembled. One morning, he was accosted by a group of four, loyal soldiers of the rival faction under the other black-hued brother, eager to slay any isolated enemies who they found. Still bearing the lumber axes from his last battle, Skoll met his four enemies, three of them armed, and slew them all. When his allies rushed to his aid, hearing the sounds of battle, they saw what he had done, and stood in awe of this one man, who alone was equal to four. It had been the first time he had fought so many at once, but something evil had stirred within him during the battle...they had not all been killed cleanly, and great brutality had been wrought about the flesh of the last of them. It was a reminder of who he had been when Gronnor found him...the signature of his berserk fury. He was glorified by his allies, but he knew that his current state was feeding something hungry and angry within him, something which he did not wish to fuel further. Even though he was powerful, the ruling family had been great, and its influence had stretched far...more recruits joined the cause with every loss. Skoll could not see a quick end coming to the conflict, and did not see himself able to control his inner demons in this environment during a period of such emotional turmoil. Using this as justification, he fled the war, taking what clues he could about HawkWind, who now sometimes went by the name VoidFane in tales, with him.
June 2004--January 2005 A period of restlessness consumed Skoll. Horrified by the monster within him, by the prospect that he could not undertake this life path while remaining as himself, he sought to retreat from it, though he never got very far. Whenever the bronze wolf met with a situation where he felt his skills could be put to use, where he felt like he was needed, he found himself providing his help. In the months that followed, the three-year-old made great strides in healing his soul of the marks left on it by his experiences, his fear of becoming the very creature which he was now tracking down ever-present, leading him down the correct path. His berserk rage had been something he had not experienced fully for some time, but had threatened to emerge many times, threatened to override the codes of conduct that his mentor had taught him, his sanity, his very spirit in favor of the demon that resided within HawkWind's bloodline...the demon which had been protecting his family for generations. Now...as he tracked HawkWind down, the stories becoming more and more recent, he began to feel the demon subside...his self-control returning as the pain of Galdra's passing, of Xander's unjust death, of Art's rejection, began to fade. While those feelings would always remain with him, their intensity waned, and so too did his aggression and the threat to his sanity.
After a few more months of fevered searching, the yellow-furred traveler came upon the ruin of what must have once been a human city. Atop the highest point of the earth in that place, he met a dying wolf, ancient, black as night with eyes consumed in white growth. He recognized him from descriptions immediately. Skoll introduced himself, and told the old wolf that he had been searching for him for over two years. He wanted to meet the figure of this great and sprawling tale, and to know what of the stories was truth, and what was fiction. The ancient wolf, HawkWind, known in that territory as VoidFane, proceeded to tell him all of his tale, from the beginning to the end. Skoll listened intently, and after the telling, which lasted through most of the night with the fifteen-year-old's labored breathing, he lay beside him until morning, waking to find the figure from the story, his life's pursuit, dead of old age. He arrived just in time. Before his death, HawkWind had asked of Skoll a boon: that the younger wolf might repay the Storm pack, whose territory had been made available to him, and provided solace for him in his final years of life. As old as he was, as deranged as he was, he had been largely unable of providing for them, and he hoped that Skoll, a more able wolf from his bloodline, would be able to repay them where he had failed. Taking on the debt owed by his oldest living relative, Skoll resolved, after much deliberation and several months, to join the Storm pack, and help them however he could.
So ends the story of Skoll's life before Bleeding Souls. That which transpires afterward is written elsewhere.
Each morning, Skoll wakes up, stretches, and spends an hour practicing his fighting techniques in wereform(with a focus on footwork, strikes, and building speed and strength--he needs a partner to practise throws for the most part). Afterwards, he will spend the remainder of the morning unsifted so that he can hunt; a process which takes him longer now that he is working through the pain of a poorly healed belly wound. Hunting now takes up most of his day, though if he is fortunate and makes a catch early, he can spend the rest of the day wandering the lands, continuing his efforts to learn how to read, or whittling. In the early evenings, he tries to sleep, though his slumber is often interrupted by troubling dreams or horrible memories earned by his experiences.
- Parents - SkyDance and Freyr
- Siblings - Skirnir and SnowOwl
- Children with Asphyxia Holocaust - Culexa Axehand, Ambien Holocaust, and Trigger Holocaust
Bronze coat, comprised of gold, brown, and even a little bit of red, with black on the tip of his ear. Skoll is missing an ear and has a few vicious scars criss-crossing his face, not to mention myriad others across his body(though they are less evident). His eyes are yellow, and he is somewhat tall, though not altogether massive for his height(he has long legs).
Skoll is thin or lean in build, but with well-defined musculature...if he were a fighter today, he might just look underfed (since these guys don't eat as well as their human counterparts). He's got a wiry strength, and long reach.
In his shifted form, he has a mane(as do most werewolves), though it is not especially pronounced as far as luperci go. In shifted form, a few of his old chest and belly wounds are apparent, though most of his healed over scars come from unshifted dog fights he had when he was younger--thus he has sustained more on his face and on his dorsal side.
Skoll has been involved in many battles over the years, and he carries some of that baggage with him physically as well as mentally. Though most of his hurts go away with time, there are a number of injuries that he has taken that will never go away completely:
- Four fang marks just below his ribs left by Gabriel de le Poer (they pain him mostly when he runs on four-legs and for some of his shifted exercises)
- A broken wrist inflicted by a hammer blow (it has healed but will never be the same--he wears a brace for it into every armed battle to protect it from taking more damage)
- A stab wound to a saddle muscle between his ribs(he's grown used to the constant dull pain--it will spike under long-term endurance tests like running down prey)
- His missing ear (cut off by either a wolf or a coyote in the chaos of battle...the enemy was "quick with a knife, but he aimed a little high").
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