I am tired of this place. Stormwind.

Scrounging for food. Hoping for peace. I will not beg. How long will I
torture myself? I need a heart balm. My trees. My fragrant home.

I saw him again. The one I fear. The one I long to hide behind. He
smells of protection and danger. Speaking with him is like speaking with a
tree. Rough bark. Living. Essential. Has he lost his roots? I cannot
know.

I marked him once. He was not ready then. Now, he has been with these
others so long the marking does not matter to him. It matters to me. He
seems to have forgotten the depths of his kind. Forgotten his heart. He
cannot smell me.

I am . . . preparing to leave. This place. Nothing holds me.

I want to lick my fur. Roll on the ground. Have my feral neck bitten by
the one stronger than me to hold me. By the one that smells familiar. I
want to snap and snarl and have it be understood. These smooth skins do not
know. There is no depth in them.

When I leave I will not mark this place. It is not my territory.

This place hates me.