Every starting was terrible - pain echoed up and down his leg regardless of if the limb touched the ground for more than a second. He had still been fuzzy; from the trauma, from the exhaustion, he didn't know - just aimlessly walking, jostled and pushed by a dark voice and shape. He had refused to move, at first. Teeth agitated his scruff, started pulling him across the swamp without care for his comfort.
Cormorant had risen to his feet then, coaxed by honeyed words - briefly swept by a willowy frame. He didn't know where they were going; just knew the discomfort of walking across freezing gravel, and then standing there, like a wraith drifting in the wind, waiting. The river was more like slush, but it was still bubbling loud enough to make him pin his ears and grimace. He began to sink down into a morose sit, reality setting in.
He didn't know where they were going. He was sure neither of them did. How long had they walked? There was still mud on his fur, dried and re-agitated by damp snow and cold wind. He wanted it gone, and he didn't want to move any further.
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