Fairspell Meadow unhinge your jaw

the early morn was partially cloudy and frigidly cold as scarab was stirred from sleep. he starts as he awakes too quickly, head lifting, lapis lazuli gaze wildly seeking the shadows for the corpse with the voice of legion that is a regular in his dreams. yet, unlike the first couple of nights scarab had dreamt of the corpse that had filled his belly before he'd left the coast no longer stirs fear within the dahomey-rivaini; because scarab realizes that out of the two: half eaten dream corpse with voice of legion and burning eye sockets and him it is he that is the bigger monster. the acceptance of what he is does not bring with it feelings of shame within scarab, like he suspects it should.

survival wasn't brave. it wasn't poetic. it was ugly. there were lines that scarab hadn't once hesitated to cross. lines that he knew he wouldn't hesitate to cross again.

he presses his nose against his petrified sandpiper for a moment, squeezing his eyes closed as his stomach rumbles. the ache of bruises and the sting of pulling wounds has faded. his shallow wounds had scabbed and then scarred over, the bruises dissipated. now there was only the ache of his never fully sated belly to deal with. he sighs heavily, peeking an eye open to the starlit sky, absently tracing an abstract shape in the sky with his gaze before he tucks his crown jewel into its hiding place — a small hole he dug concealed by a thicket of tough grass — and pushes himself to his paws in a languid stretch.

sleep would evade him now, he knows. so he doesn't see the point in laying here and pretending to sleep anymore. instead, he strives to make himself useful, ambling towards the borders of the meadow.

nanowrimo: 307

The days were getting colder, and Darkmoon was beginning to worry again. As a lone wolf, especially one that was not practiced in the art of hunting, he was facing a potentially difficult winter. He did not have a cache of food, and with the recent upheaval of the land, much prey had left the Wilds - and Darkmoon had wondered on more than one occasion whether he should have followed them too.

The meadow on this day was pleasant to stroll through, and Darkmoon was able to forgot his worries for a moment. He trotted at a steady pace, stopping every now and again to sniff at a burrow or follow a faint scent trail; but there was nothing that particularly caught his attention or that needed further investigation. He kept on in this way for some time, until a distant figure emerged at the edge of the meadow. He changed his course to move towards it, already having an idea of what he might find.
    Sure enough, as he approached he confirmed the figure to be another wolf. Drawing closer, he could see that was an adolescent - another adolescent, as though the Teekon Wilds were only populated by young wolves approaching their prime. He slowed to a walk as he came near, holding his tail slightly aloft in an unsure show of power. He was older and larger as a result, but he had never been a strong, dominating presence. Still, this youngster could not know that, and so he maintained his posture. "In times such as these, shouldn't your parents want you close?"