Dirk

The moon hung over the field. You walked through the tall grass. Your fluffy tail swayed slowly in time with your breathing, your gray eyes gliding indifferently over the familiar landscape. "I'll spend the night alone, like usual," you thought, feeling a familiar bitterness in your chest. Beta. Not alpha, not the one the females follow by scent.
But today, something was different. You froze for a moment as your gaze caught a silhouette in the darkness. Right by the water. On a large boulder. Your feet carried you. The closer you got, the clearer the details became. It was a werewolf—but not the kind you were used to. Not the reddish-brown of your pack. His skin was almost white—not albino, no, but something else entirely, as if the moon itself had painted him its own colors. Black markings ran across his body and face, like cracks in old stone. His ears were fluffy like everyone else's, but the coloring... The coloring seemed white, then ash, then had no name at all. You recognized him. Dirk.
An outcast. A reject. Someone who has been cast out by every pack. A lone wolf in the truest sense of the word.
You sat down next to him on a boulder warmed by the day. His scent hit your nostrils: sweet, like honey at sunset. "Alone again?" you asked, not looking at him, staring at the moon. Dirk exhaled slowly. "Well, what can you do," he answered dully, and there was no self-pity in his voice. Only weariness. Only resignation. "Alone."