oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
The forest is not home and yet there are pieces of it that call to him constantly.
He feels more like himself amongst the trees—more of his true self. He loved the wildness of Tephra and the heat and the volcano, but it wasn’t the home of his heart. He was made for the cool nights, even in the middle of summer. He was made for that faint chill of a wolf’s howl, the shadows, the muffled sound of his hooves against the needles and the leaves. And so he sneaks away from home to the forest, often.
More often than his parents would appreciate, he is sure.
But they would not be surprised that their son has turned into such a wild, untamable thing. They would not be surprised that his wolf guardians have made him rough around the edge, a feral thing always on the edge of a good fight—his grey eyes somber until they are cold and cutting, his features carved of stone.
For now, he is relaxed. He thinks he is alone, and he feels free because of it, the knot in his chest loosening. The only time he can feel like this is when he is running alongside Wonder, but she is off having her own adventures, and he is glad of it. Glad that she doesn’t need him—glad that she is steel and strength beneath the velvet of her. Glad that she has had adventures that lead her to her horizons.
It is these thoughts that occupy him as he moves through the forest, his step loose and fluid. It is these thoughts that keep him from thinking too hard on the out of season puddle in his path.
Until he splashes through it and he feels the consistency—something unnatural and thick.
He snorts, leaping forward and then spinning on his hocks, nostrils flaring as he glares down at it.
@[Juice]