Because SPCs have angsty feelings too.
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Moonlight spills down upon the silvery slopes of the Moonfall Mountains, which feel hardly any more like a dream now than they already did when he used to visit them as a boy so many, many years ago. The beautiful moonwolves still frolic and dance upon the hillside, leaving exuberant arcs of pawprints through the snow which seem to glow with a light all their own. He yearns as ever to be among them, among pack.
He slinks abjectly through the snow towards them, belly low, tail tucked. Surely they will let him join them, if he only comes close enough for them to truly see him. Surely they will see that he is part of their pack too. They will greet him with the joy of recognition, and then they will all dance together in the moonlight, wild and free even in their unity. But still he feels the need to slink, as if only by stealth and stratagem can he navigate the distance between himself and them.
Yet as he creeps forward each step plunges through the crust of snow, which seems to grow ever softer and deeper as he goes. He struggles, feels a noise rising in the back of his throat, frustration and pleading together. -I belong with you. I belong. We are kin, we are pack...- But he only keeps sinking deeper in this mass of stuff, powdery and losing its silvery sheen now as it becomes dull grey and sickly warm between his struggling legs.
The dancing moonwolves are fading from his sight as puffs of the stuff rise up all around, shrouding everything from him. But it's only when a hot gust of wind slams against him, pushing great clouds of it into his face, that he fully realizes it is no longer snow that he struggles through, but ash. Plumes of ash, flecks of ash, great whirling flakes of ash, smothering his breaths and pressing with searing heat into his vision. He feels it burn like a brand into his left eye, and just when he can no longer see anything before him, an image seems to rise from inside him instead, and imprint itself in the burning shadows of his dimming sight.
He sees himself -- struggling, puny, eyes slitted nearly shut, ungainly limbs and stubby tail, fur singed and mottled, coated with layer upon layer of ghost-grey ash. He is not a moonwolf. He has no pack. He is solitary by design, meant to wander alone over endless leagues of ash and dust.
If he were any kind of wolf at all the revelation would make him howl, and maybe still sound like music even in its pain. But from the throat of a lynx all that can escape is a strangled yowl, grating and torturous, and loud enough inside his skull to jerk him away from the realm of soot and char and back into a suite at Greyleigh Manor, where a fire blazing merrily in the hearth casts its heat upon his face -- and drops a sudden log that raises a short-lived puff of ash.