Wapun Meadow some boys hate themselves. spend their lives resenting their fathers

dated during this (March 22nd)

Abel continued to run and run and run. Even as the scent of the border faded (a detail he failed to realize in his urgency) his pace never slowed.
His ears were pinned to the side of his skull. His eyes were anywhere but forward. Through his blurred peripheral he watched for any pursuers. Through the sound of wind rushing over his body he listened for their drumming footfalls.

Akavir did not trail far from the creek, and while the meadow was usually a place of solace and quiet, it seemed anything but today--the scent of fear laced the air, and the shadow's ears peaked forward, his eyes sweeping over the grassy knolls.

A streak darted forward. A blur of motion, but eyes could be made out, desperation in the fleeing form apparent to even the most oblivious onlooker.

Akavir, too, struck forward, piercing eyes on the youth and moving toward the boy. Whatever danger he ran from did not seem to be in pursuit, and so the stocky wolf would aim to stop him--the fear scent in the air driving his own instincts to determine the threat and dispose of it.