Refreshing - it was the opposite of the crossed land before him. The overgrown gardens to the ashy, dead forest that resembled the efforts of a wild fire. The bitter cold kept him tightly wound in leathers and memories of his home - the light snowfall that peppered the ground and smothered the new dead efforts of growth, trying to poke through his black furs as he walked with his nose down. Looking for it all, looking for nothing, all with ears far forward and a tail spiraled atop his hips (A hand on a generational weapon, passed down, passed down, passed down.)


And so he continues, grazing the surface for some sort of indication of the warm fever or bluebells or the kiss of something he truly remembered. The underlying hints of the boy crossed his passage, a child with the world before him and the humoring of the icy water that coated his skin purely at the amusement of a man. It ushers a small crack of his lips as his head raised to look around the dreary landscape, winter entombing it even for the apparent fire that had broken out. rebellion - wild fire - witch craft or sorcery that his mother spoke of as hissing her children off until nightfall. His wandering eventually led him to the crushed, trampling remains of a home. Walls leaning in, a roof patchy with snow laying on the baseboards and a breeze embracing whomever entered but he was not that person. Lingering around with his nose to the ground before his hind end settled with his back to a crumpled stump, ashy and barred and cold with the mornings embrace.