worlds apart

She paced along the edge of the lake and he, diligent and protective of his nearby home, followed along. The wind was aligned against her, and brought the scent of a forest to his attention; undertones of wolf lingered there as well, telling him it was a pack creature that now prowled close. Still, Njal was not prepared to identify the main scent: but when he did, his strides slackened and he stared at Proudheart's retreating figure. Her route was taking her along the lake but it diverged along one of the worn paths that the wolves of the creek often used. He wondered if she would pick up his own scent and follow it - or maybe she was simply wandering.

The fire flickered and he chased it. No longer would Njal sit back and watch her, afraid of any interaction. This is what he thought while his steps, quick and quiet, powered him closer to her. She was quick as well - quicker than himself - and her nimble body streaked through the snow. What are you doing here? He thought. You are in the Seahawk. But he knew that wasn't true. He knew, somehow, that the wolf he had witnessed was her. It was guilt that rose within his throat, rolling at the base of his tongue and spoiling the taste. Guilt, for leaving her there in the cold.

The moth continued to flit after the flame. He tracked her with the same predatory stride that she boasted, although the strength he had previously carried had begun to melt away. The pride within Njal's figure dripped with each step, leading to a lowered posture, a snaking and stout body. He did not wish to be found, not yet. At the same time, he kept an eye upon her.