The sun peeked out shyly from its cloudy blanket, beams of light filtering down, down, down. Brilliant gold cascaded through the air, a shimmering spotlight that point out the best nature had to offer -- a bird preening, delicately rearranging its feathers, a hare leaping skyward in the snow, and a king resting in his throne of bark and snow.
Maksim lifted his head languidly from his paws, his gaze travelling lazily through the evening shine. His shoulder was no longer an open wound at risk of infection (thanks to the hard work of the River wolves' medicinal practitioners), but now came the final hurdle. Could he push through the final stage of healing and regain the lost muscle mass? He had put hardly any pressure on his injured leg, only forgetting his caution for important happenings. Kisla's return had been one such thing. Still, it wouldn't hurt the agouti lord to think more before he acted so perhaps, in some twisted way, this injury was serving to help him.
Bristles of fur had begun to sprout on the naked patches of skin, though there would always be nicks and scrapes visible on him. Lifting himself to stand, shaking the snow that clung coldly to his pelt from his body, Maksim stretched his body out with a deep yawn. The tip of his tongue curled before his jaws snapped shut, his usual posture returning. With a slow start, the River founder decided to seek out his trusted medic -- Lachesis was perhaps Maksim's closest ally these days, bar Kisla and Naia, and the ghost's company was always welcomed. Maksim had watched him grow and fall, only to rise from the ashes and triumph over his fears ... at least, outwardly. The gods only knew what might be tormenting his heart.