002 of 012 — the twelve labors of hercules ingram edition.
smoke awoke ingram from his place curled among the pitfall of fallen boulders, accumulated over the years from snowmelt and rain caused landslides. it is not thick: not near, but it cloys around him and rubs against his lungs with each breath, stinging his eyes.
so, he ascends.
the path he finds up to the top of the razorback ridge is well worn: from wolves that once called it home, perhaps ... and less treacherous with the dry conditions.
and when he reaches a distance above the layer of smoke that lay over the world yawning below, he draws in a few breaths of cooling, fresh mountain air.
A moderately disheveled Exousia prowled to this same height from the opposite way. Her hackles rippled irritably as her tail lashed in frustration. She had just lost her prey and the traveling smell of smoke was to blame. Her presence here was much for the same reason as the wolf who was already there. A familiar figure...
Ave, shadecaller,
she called to him lowly. There was no need to speak very loud up here - there wasn't a single tree there to impede her voice.
a distantly familiar face crosses paths with him. memories of the illness that had gripped him and the lingering pathogens of it.
ingram recalls a name.
exousia...right?
he inquires in greeting.
a glimpse is cast back out upon the curling smoky air of below before it rests upon her once more.
does the tang of smoke in the air draw you up higher, too?
he inquires, perhaps conversationally.