Serpent Lake My thoughts are often not nasty.

The shadow crept along the tiers of stone and wound his way along, flowing from point to point, until there was no more road to follow and only a sheer drop. The rumble of the falls did not dissuade him from getting close to the edge; he stared off of it as if the dire drop was not there, and even raised a limb as if to take further steps. At the last instant the wolf pulled back from the ledge and, swaying more than striding, continued on his way. It was as if his legs had a mind of their own.

From there he found his way down the natural slabs following the water. More than a few of his strides landed him directly in a recessed pool of stagnant water, which rose up and sloshed over the edge as if from a hot bath. The water was cold but not too cold; it roused some kind of awareness from him and kept him going, and then as the wind picked up and he slowly dried off, the resulting chill did the same.

He found a basin at the bottom of the ravine and followed it as it tapered, becoming a series of streams, and then stopped when he found the lake. Unlike the rest of the waterways the lake was still and dark. It was mirror-like, except there was nothing reflecting from its depths; the edges were fringed with the green-black of trees and the wolf could not tell where they started and the lake ended.

After a few minutes the boy blinked, sucking in a breath of pine fresh air, and seemed to come-to. He stood there staring out at the water as a smile slowly fixed upon his face; it wasn't one of mirth or any great humor, and did not change the empty, mannequin-like quality of the rest of him. But it sat there, as he sank back in to the mud of the bank, staring at nothing.

the girl almost does not notice the other perched silently at the bank of the lake and likely would not have, had she not been met with the harrowing feeling of another's company. dazed optics blink against the dim light as the figure of another slowly begins to reveal itself -- their pelt almost melts into the scenery and she briefly wonders if this was how others observed her. it is the pale glint of polished canines that strike out amongst the shadows and instinctively she nears... curious as to it was who lurked alone with such an ominous presence. 

rounding the lakes natural curve, her eyes do not leave the nearing figure as she closes the distance between them. it is almost a hunt, she thinks, as her tall form slaunters forth. but something is off, something strange about the other that irks her as oddly familiar yet unnerving at the same time. it is strange, and scylla halts rather abruptly -- mere feet from the man. 

her critical gaze is unwavering and she finds herself watching him, watching him do nothing but smile at the static lake water flutter gently in the breeze. "what are you doing?" the wraith cannot help but inquire, unable to constrain her interest in within her own head. the travel-safe bundle of herbs rests at her feet.

The way he was perched there, smiling, almost as if he were gloating over something, would have been odd to witness. More bizarre was the far-off look in his eye. 

He did not see the lake for what it was, rather, he peered at it as if something moved across the surface more substantial than the wind. As the air trembled across the surface it caused a slight tidal sway (if one could call it that). If he tipped his chin down he'd see himself — amorphous, swarming on all sides with slivers of collected, refracted light. He was tempted to look and knew even as he began, he would not have the willpower. Those lights were more than reflections - they were eyes, and they were watching him.

What are you doing? the wind asked. It called from behind him, turning as it danced to catch the tip of an ear. Hypnos cannot be certain that he's hearing anything at all. He could have been asleep and dreaming this, for a change. When was the last time he'd slept? For all he knew, never.

Up the lion's mane and north of the brook, that's what they said. He recited with a spritely air. Just rocks though, no lions. Bad directions. This isn't a brook this is a mirror. Can't trick me. His swarthy fur shuffled a bit as he shifted his weight, pawing at the mud. Piling it between his forepaws as if to make something, but, it just sags over.