He was still young, but Conaco knew the world was so much bigger than he was told. He lived a happy, peaceful life with his tribe deep in a forest on the side of a mountain. He wasn’t particularly special in any way, but he was the light of his tribe. Not only was he young, but because of his adventurous and cocky attitude.
He lived his life in peace- and that wasn't necessary to his liking. He couldn't take it- he needed to get out, to do something, to change something. He wasn't sure what, but something needed to go.
By his 6th birthday, Conaco could properly walk on his hind legs and he only became more adventurous. He also started feeling a longing, of what he was unsure, but he was sure it was his calling. Conaco would run every which way, under the feet of his tribemates and spouting ridiculous ramblings in his wake.
Over the next few months, he grew restless. Not because he was transitioning out of childhood, but in a different sort of way. The feeling of longing only grew stronger. He was confused to say the least. Conaco was jumpy and very aware of everything around him. His restlessness began to show and his tribemates grew concerned. They cornered him and pinned questions on him, to which Conaco had no answer. What could he possibly say? That he felt something? But what was it that he felt?
After weeks of being under careful watch from his elders, something in Conaco had finally snapped. He shouted and rambled, but this time not without purpose. He put forward everything he had, everything that had been swirling around in his young head and whispering into his ears, everything that had shadowed his own path and actions over the past year. Scared and confused, he began tearing up. Conaco told tales of seeing the dead walking among the tribe, and of dark visions that the future held for the people.
Shocked and scared themselves, the group became outraged at him. He had just insulted their deceased elders, and even claimed to know what the future held? Poor Conaco had said too much, even for a child.
The next few days went by quickly, Conaco became weary of his tribe, even though they're the only thing he's ever known in his short life. The tribe began to ignore him and cast him aside, he was no longer the life that shined on them, but instead a shadow that loomed over the whole pack. Conaco grew uncomfortable with his life, and would pick fights with anyone who glanced at him wrong. That's when Conaco got his first scar.
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Conaco next few scars came sooner than he hoped. On his 7th birthday, he was to fight the chief of the tribe on the terms that if he lost, he was to be exiled. Of course, a young Viscet pup hardly stood any chance to his experienced elder, and he was banished from the pack and exiled to unknown lands. That also marked the day Conaco got his helmet, a symbol of banishment and shame from his home tribe.
The weeks following his banishment was hard, harder than little Conaco had thought. He was stripped of everything he had ever known, yet he didn't feel as alone and lost as he probably should have. Oh no, quite the opposite. Conaco was actually excited, he was free. Free at last from being someone he's not. Free to live life the way he wanted, unbound from any rules. Free to find his calling that had robbed him of countless nights of sleep. With his head held high, Conaco wandered in search of a new place to call home.
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Around his 8th birthday, Conaco had found a new home, and a much more comfortable one at that. It was a small, hollowed out cavern on a narrow field by a stream, and it became much more of a home than he had ever had. Over his year of wandering, he had come to terms with his banishment. It wasn't really a bad thing, he had thought, it game him the freedom he had always wanted.
He also decided to change his name to Morgan. New home, new life, right? Morgan saw no reason to continue going by his tribe name if he was no longer welcome by them. And thus- Morgan began his new life as a wanderer; carefree and proud, completely turning his back on his old life and heading in a new direction.
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Morgan was no longer the small, bouncy viscet pup that he was when he was pushed out of his previous pack, but he was now a tall, calm and headstrong viscet. He wore the mask with pride, showing off how the beautiful smooth gold glinted in the sunlight. To Morgan, the mask wasn't a symbol of banishment, but a symbol of his rebirth into his new life.
Over the next few years, Morgan had gained several more scars along his bright body. Not only from his habit of picking fights with anyone and anything, but also from his cocky attitude while confronting others. Everyone in the area now knows to stay clear of Morgan and his territory, or you'd better be in for a fight.
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Winter came quickly this particular year, and it hit hard. This particular winter was a storm unlike any other- snow piled 5 feet or even higher. It was difficult to trudge through the it ,and colder than the north pole, or so it could be debated. Forced to stay in the safety of his home, Morgan came to the realization that if he is going to survive on his own, he has to be prepared. And prepared he was not, but Morgan held in as best as he could through the rough, eternal winter.
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The next spring, Morgan was very thankful for making it through the winter. Even though he had lost a lot of weight, his attitude had changed towards nature and life itself. Before he had taken for granted everything around him, but now in contrast he seems to be more respectful and careful of his territory.
His first task of preparing himself for times to come was to stock up. On what? On everything. This was in fact when another scar was added to his worn colorful pelt. On one of Morgan's outings of gathering branches and logs, a branch fell on his back, leaving a deep wound that spanned his body.
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Quicker than he hoped, Morgan was on the move again. His wound had barely healed when he set out on a quest. A quest? What is this, some RPG game quest? Morgan wasn't sure, but he yearned for an adventure, he yearned for more. Leaving his makeshift home behind, Morgan set out to start his life over yet again. On his wanderings, this Viscet couldn't help but wonder if this was his destiny- if this is what he was made for. Shaking his head, rattling his mask in turn, he flicked his tail and left the cove by the river without looking back.
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A few months passed, and Morgan had moved onto his next adventure. This one led him straight to the battlefield - into the heart of war. He enrolled himself into the army and was set out almost immediately. At first it seemed like a fun thing, to run around and cover new ground, but he was very soon proven wrong. War is no game, and it shouldn't be treated as one. Morgan saw more than he ever wanted and hoped to see, and he didn't like it. It's not surprising that many more scars were added to his small body. Traumatized, Morgan turned tail and ran. Deemed a traitor, Morgan was exhiled from the army, and the military branches at that, and sentenced to live life on the run.
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Life on the run seemed normal to Morgan, as he had lived this way for the last several years. His mind often wandered back to his simple days, living among his tribe. But those days were long gone, the memories seemed hazy and faded. Morgan was no longer the small, confused pup he was when he was first banished from his home. He was now a tall, slim viscet who had seen much more than anyone could even begin to imagine. His long body was covered with scars, each one came with a story that he could never forget. From his initial fight with his elder, to the scarring memories of the battlefield, Morgan couldn't possibly forget.
He had been banished nearly 5 years ago, and the thought often kept him up at night. Morgan often fiddled with the mask that covered his head, it too had it's battle wounds. He hardly noticed it anymore, it just seemed natural to him, and often reminded him of his dream from his pup years- that longing for
freedom. He chuckled when he thought about it- the very concept of freedom.
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Over his days of wandering, dragging his heavy body over cool, dark hills illuminated by moonlight, Morgan often looked to the sky. o, how beautiful the stars were painted across the endless darkness. It was on one of those nights that he met another viscet. She went by Nova, and she was beautiful. Her own slender body as dark as the night, bright patterns decorated her fur. She was surprised at first, finding another of her kind so far from everything else. But she didn't question who he was or where he came from, but simply enjoyed his presence and a conversation.
They met a few times like this, under the heavy blanket of stars that covered everything it touched. Morgan would ask her about where she came from or what she was doing way out here, but Nova would only smile and laugh, claiming Morgan had no right to say anything. On days like those, Morgan truly felt content. For the first time in his life, he felt free. He inwardly chuckled, free? Do I even know the meaning of the word?
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Morgan lives the rest of his life in peace, though he is still a bit salty, he has calmed down from his restless state because of his experience. He is wise, and very admirable. He doesn't see Nova too often anymore, but they will occasionally run into each other in their periods of wandering. Morgan still looks up to the sky, wondering what his tribe has been doing over the years that had past. He also wonders about Nova, where she is and what she's doing, and can't help but worry about her. If she's anything like himself, she's probably got a few scars of her own, Morgan would think.
He no longer answers the call to adventure right away, Morgan now knew better than to rush into the head of battle and risk his life as he had. He liked to pass time counting his scars and reminiscing the memories each one carried.
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He is happy, wandering with no real purpose in life. The golden mask brightly reflects the sunlight, shining its beautiful color. Life went on, much more peaceful now, and the not-so-little-anymore Morgan is content with life just as it is.
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