As the autumn slowly died, the wind began to sing its sad songs of gentle grief, sending the brittle leaves dancing and weaving, barely hovering over the ground. Yet now the wind ceased its tune, and when the death of fall finally came, began to wail and howl, mourning for its lost love. The heavens cried tears so thick of emotion that they fell like rocks from the sky, flooding the world below with a carpet of feather tears. Winter had overtaken the world, and though the houses along the avenue were lit and merry at the news of christmas, a stranger dragged his feet through the cold sidewalk, matching the gloomy mood of the nature around him.
He had good reason to be forlorn. Christmas was the holiday for family, for reunions with blood relatives. Yet Ophidelo had no family to rejoice with. No, they had passed away a long time ago.
They had been dead for centuries

But there was no use about crying for the dead. No use spilling any tears. It was his fault, anyways. His fault that they died. It took him too long: too long to figure out, too long to find it, too long for him to realize that he actually needed to get off his rear end to somehow reverse the...
No. There was no use. He had said it before! He had said it a thousand times before! And still, he needed to be disciplined not to think of the past. What good was remembering, if it only brought tears?
What good were tears, if they could not bring back a life?
Bring back one hundred lives?

It was too late to do anything about it. Far too late.
Two centuries too late.

It wasn't as if there was much he could have done about it, anyways. Nonetheless, the guilt weighed upon his shoulders and made his eyes dreary. Whatever regret he had, however, was not easily percieved by any stranger--or life time friend. Not that he had any life-time friends. It's hard to meet a companion who's over two hundred and three years old. It was very hard indeed (Ophidelo knew, he tried).

His, what is to say, problem was born from the very heart of his own greed, which consumed him as a youth.

But perhaps the best part to begin his story is at his beginning, thus his condition be better explained.

In the early 1800's, when King Leopold II of Belgium claimed the Congo, it set off a huge race to conquer and claim various parts of Africa.
(Why would one need to start so early in history? Because this is exactly where this stranger's history begins)
Africa was the perfect opportunity for an aspiring young youth... such as Ophidelo







Wandering carelessly through the tall grasses, a bright strip of darkening purple, pink and shimmering stars clashed against the night sky. These stars weren't part of the sky at all, but a part of the black pelted Lupess below, her back looking to be a pallet for the fallen stars above. Although her back was striking and truly other worldly, her ghostly white face and emerald green eyes commanded attention from any other features, her sharp white muzzle and longing gaze aimed off into the distance. Her frame, much like the rest of her body, was elegant and lean, her long legs taking small strides as she walked with a certain hint of confidence about her. As her walk led into a paced stride, her long, sleek, white tail swayed casually behind her, her steps careful and well placed. Her glowing green gaze seemed set on the sky, and her face was blank and questioning, her mouth slightly agape as if she was in deep thought or recalling a distant memory. And she was, more or less. Craning her long neck back, she paused for a moment, her body stiffening as she sniffed the crisp night air softly, her eyes growing wide with curiosity. The scent of others carried on the breeze, many others, from many different directions. Smiling faintly, she perked her ears upward, her eyes glimmering with hope. 'But which scent to follow?' Her mind echoed as she glanced carefully in every direction. Sighing reluctantly, she gave a light shrug continued forward, assuming that she might as well take whatever company she found first.

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