In the mid-afternoon sunlight, Damascus ran through the forest, with nothing else heard than the rush of wind in his ears. The sunlight itself felt warm on his back, betraying the fact that winter was coming soon. Winter was never an easy season for the nomad, who was not looking forward to his second winter on the road. Winter meant scarce food and freezing nights under the stars, where the silence came out being much more deafening and his canine brethen much more savage and brutal.

But for now, for that very moment, he did not ponder these things. What he pondered was nothing at all, only feeling the rush of adrenaline as it surged through his veins and the pride at which he made the last second leaps away from the trees as they came into the path. It was a twisting game of wolfish hopscotch. The crisp air had burned his lungs initially, but the ache had faded away, leaving him only with the breathless, almost weightless sensation that he needed no oxygen to propel himself.

Deep in the cedarwood though, his limbs slowed to a surprisingly graceful stop. He had smelled it long before he heard it or saw it, and his brain, being so finely atuned to his needs had proclaimed just what the mystery want was: water. Damascus searched out the stream after a few moments and paused at its rocky banks, panting away. He ascertained that there was no immediate danger first, and then lowered his muzzle to the top of the running surface for the sought after drink.