Biography
Maska Muraco was one to fear, though not in the ways of his mother, but in his pitiful desperation for his mother to smile, be it amused or bitter, at his attention-seeking antics; cast a look of pride upon him succeeding at anything, really; or meet his eyes shaded of just a slight hue different from hers but nevertheless the exact shade of merciless emerald: for it was his desperation that led to his recklessness, to his hatred, to his lies, to the murder he committed in revenge for the years of neglect, and to his cold frigid heart. Yes, that was what should be feared of the Cold Moon: a sad, lonely, desperate existence.
He never understand why the great Fala Flo despised him so much. Was it his visage--white plastered with black spots, entirely different to the black pelts of the others: a disgrace, perhaps, to them all; so much so that his mother averted her in disgust whenever she dared glance his way? Was it his apparent neediness--constantly beside her, laying as close as possible to where she slept, his awkward attempts at play, and so on and so forth until he all but threw himself off a cliff? Or was it simply his very being--simply...Maska Muraco with his joyful personality that the cruel world would never stand; a mental and emotional weakness that the cruel world would not tolerate, expressed in the scars and depressions upon which reminded him of his failures during even the simplest of hunts.
What he did not get from his mother he got from the bison. Shocking, he knew, for a wolf to consider an animal that his kind preyed upon and could kill him with one charge. But there was an old female who never really migrated nor cared about anything other than herself--the former being unusual for bison, but perhaps she'd stopped caring--that he often found grazing by the nearby creek; he met them as a pup, charging at her foolishly, nipping at her hooves, only to, of course, fail, and (miraculously not getting killed) pushed away a few feet away to stop him from being such a nuisance. For some reason, the bison never harmed him. It was as if, despite their species, she had taken a liking to him, and by the time he was a yearling she'd practically become his mother.
She never spoke. Their conversations were one-sided, with him complaining about everything (mostly about how his mother had been ignoring him since literally the moment of his birth) and her huffing a certain way that could've meant anything. Sometimes he'd curl up like a pup by her side and sleep the day away.
His mother nor his sisters never found out. He knew why: they simply never cared about where he went during those hours he disappeared; they never cared about him at all. With the bison, he felt free and wanted. All his mother ever did was show up, kill some deer, and leave to sulk somewhere a mile away; then his sisters would eat two-thirds of the kills and he'd be left with the tasteless scraps. He never cared about any of them. Sometimes he found that he hated his sisters for looking like their mother. And most of the time he hated his mother.
The bison was his family for all he knew.
Until the day his mother called for a feast and he'd arrived at the creek to find his sisters had eaten what was once his friend.
He tracked his so-called mother down and found her moping uselessly by a willow tree by a cliffside overlooking the beauty of the forest beneath. With the light of the setting sun hitting at just the perfect angle, she looked like a black angel, nothing of the monstrosity he believed her to be.
Only when she dangled pathetically from the edge of the cliff did finally, finally emerald eyes met emerald eyes and she opened her mouth to plead for her life. She spoke to him. Directly. To which he spoke of his grandiose opinion of her, and the liar who considered herself his mother had the audacity to beg for forgiveness.
He told her she was a coward, and then she abandoned her act entirely and told him he was ungrateful: after all, she'd fed him, provided shelter, and, according to her, "most importantly" kept them away from the prying eyes of the ravens so that they'd never go down in history and be known simply as the children of the infamous Fala Flo. But no matter what she'd say, the pain simply could be quenched by her tales of her sad, sad life, which she said gave her the excuse to be so unkind; the reason for why she was so cruel to him: she had left a male, who had loved her, in such a mindlessly selfish way that his pelt, which he had inherited from him, haunted her of Riptide; and every other revolting thing she uttered to him in a mocking attempt at an apology.
Maska Muraco did not regret his decision to murder his mother. He had grieved for her since the day of his birth, and her death finally gave him permission to stop.
Breeding Info
N/A
| Personality
Hopeful, gullible, naïve, and attention-seeking--this was Maska Muraco. Hopeful that his mother would turn his way, smile at him in pride, meet his emerald eyes the same hue as her own; gullible in the way he bent himself to his own stupidity of believing things could change; naïve in an obvious way; attention-seeking in every sense of the word. But things changed when...something happened. His mother vanished, his two sisters left, abandoning their progeny to him, someone who surely wasn't, isn't, or ever will be fit to raise young. He is as cold as the frigid winter, as steely as the toughest metal, as unemotional as one without a heart. He is callous and vindictive all at once, with so much spite he all but radiates with it. He knows what he is, but he isn't willing to change... But surely, he still has some sort of softness within him, if he so much as dared to bring three of six wolves to maturity? Perhaps; perhaps not. It is one of his greatest mysteries.
Preferences
To be wanted. That is all. And it is an impossible feat, isn't it?
Special Skills
Almost astonishingly average; the only special thing about Maska Muraco is his ability to tolerate extreme weather.
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Spring 
Night Weather: 
Flood Moon: 
