I am not Rogue

Chapter 1

My eyes flutter open to the rose, violet and gold streaked clouds, painted across the dark sky in their vibrate colours. Through the pine needles, I watch as the sky lightens.

I shift, my position on the branch becoming uncomfortable. I stretch the sleep out of my limbs, flexing to get my muscles up and working.

With a yawn, I jump up, balancing on the branch. Slinging on my backpack that's filled with my essentials, I climb slowly. The familiar rough bark of the pine tree grazes my palms as I grab onto the branches, hauling myself to the top of the tree.

I poke my head out into the sky. The sun, now risen above the towering trees of the forest, sets the sky into a canvas of blue. I grip onto the pine tree as my body emerges from its branches. A cool autumn wind curls around my body, whipping my clothes and hair and swaying the tree. The wind lifts the tangy scent of pine needles and wet earth into the air.

The coming winter is going to be a cold one, I note unenthusiastically.

Grabbing the map from my back, I survey the land before looking at the marked map. My map of America is marked with several pack territories and rogue land.

My eyes linger on one pack territory, indicated by the black marker, Moonstone pack. The border of the pack had been marked again and again as it expanded and became more powerful. My path down the coast for the winter runs past the pack. In a few miles, I'll be right next to it, I'll stay far away from its border.

I pull out the length of rope from my backpack, looping it around the top of the tree. I tug at it, making sure it's secure before abseiling down the tree.

My bare feet touch the cold ground. Regaining my balance, I unhook the rope and it falls to the forest floor.

I pack my backpack before starting on my way south for the winter.

Falling leaves in hues of red and gold, crunch beneath my footfalls. Shrubs scrap my bare legs and I push low hanging branches out of my way.

Hundreds of bird songs twitter through the forest. I follow deer tracks through the woods. Birds flutter above my head and I watch hares as they hope away. I jog quietly through the forest, the grass cool on the souls of my feet.

Through the millions of scents of the forest, one sticks out. The soft sound of a snort and a hoof grazing the grass draws my gaze to the side.

A white-tailed deer stands in between the trees. It stares wide-eyed at me. Beneath its shiny chestnut coat, it's hide twitches.

I still under its gaze. My stomach growls, reminding me of my hunger. The deer's ears flatten before it takes off in leaps and bounds. I watch it gracefully slip away into the forest, the instinct to chase after it and hunt it down crawls across my skin.

I shake the wolf instinct away, grabbing an apple I stole from the pack I last passed through.

I continue through the forest on my path to the south. Munching on the apple, I pull out the map again. The channel between the Moonstone pack and the Yellowstone pack is the only way to get into California unless I want to add the three day trip around their border.

After an hour, just like I remember from the last few times I made this trip, the stream appears in front of me.

Stepping into the cold water, I walk with the current, knowing it will take me straight through the rogue land between the packs. The stream covers my tracks and scent, making an easy journey.

I follow the stream, my bare feet tingling due to the cold clear water that wraps around my ankles. I watch little schools of fish swim by, gliding with the water over the smooth grey rocks.

After a few minutes of following the stream, I stop, abruptly. The smell of the air changing. The feel of the atmosphere presses down on me. I retract my steps carefully and quietly.

Being a lone wolf this close to a pack border is something no one wants to be. The threat and danger in my position is intimate.

Pack wolves despise us, only because of their limited knowledge. Packs kill us mercilessly with the perceived idea that every wolf without a pack is a blood thirst driven rogue. Unbeknown to them, there are two kinds of packless wolves.

Rogues. Wolves who are normally banished from their pack for unspeakable reasons. The ones who give up their humanity and sanity. Driven by hate and anger, they're out of control, blood lusted and they impulsively attack anything that moves.

Lone wolves. Wolves who leave their pack one the own terms for a reason. The ones who live simple, without a pack or authority. Shying away from packs.

I may not shy away from pack lands as I frequently trespass to steal needed items for my survival, escaping with the pack on my tail, but I am not a rogue. I'm not an angry, blood lusting, impulsive wolf with no humanity.

I am a Lone Wolf.

Once I'm far enough away from Moonstones border, I jump out of the river and start pacing on the spot.

I run my hand through my sandy blonde curls, realising with crushed hope the problem at hand.

Kneeling down, I dump my backpack in the dirt in front of me. Grabbing the map and the black marker, I yank the lid off with my teeth. I scribble on the map until I finish.

Leaning back, I observe the updated map. The black border of the Moonstone pack now expanded.

So expanded that it's now right next to Yellowstone's. So expanded that the safe channel through the two territories that I used to get to California no longer exists.