Something had changed.
As to what or even when, Askan wasn't entirely sure. From atop the Lookout the field looked the same as it always did, or at least that was the case at first glance. The changes were subtle, so much so that even Askan had a hard time seeing them. But his eyes were sharp and no one knew territory quite like he did. The rye, that had once been tall and vibrant, was now dry and brittle. It no longer seemed like a golden ocean that swayed and danced to the tune of the wind. Rather, it seemed like a graveyard with thousands of stalks as headstones.
But there was more to it then that.
Seasons came and went, and the world moved with them. Askan wasn't bothered by the weather, it was something more than that. Like there was a pit inside of him that kept getting deeper and darker. It was a a strange, obscure sense of not quite sorrow, but close. A feeling of monachopsis, that to Askan, had seemingly come out of nowhere.
This was his home, he loved it here, he had shed blood and tears in his attempts to make it work and yet...He swallowed thickly as he stared at the darkening horizon. Had it all amounted to nothing? Why did he feel as though it was all withering before him? And worse yet, why did he feel so hollow?
The familiarity of this place had once felt so soothing, but now it felt like a noose around his throat. So many wolves came and went, and in the end he couldn't help but wonder if they had the right idea all along. He had spat their names like curses, called them moochers and deserters but perhaps he was cut from the very same cloth. He'd done it once before, what was to stop him from doing it again?
His eyes stung at the thought and he raised a paw to swipe at his face. He was so tired and the world around him seemed so dark and grey. Maybe he was due a change after all.