Swiftcurrent Creek pont neuf

She does not catch his eye at first - there is too great a distance, and he is busied with planning his next move. To head along the river seems like the best course, the easiest. The mountains do not suit him - or rather he does not suit them in the slightest - and so that is one thing off of his limited list. With a sigh, the golden boy moved along without his usual confidence and poise; but he did stop to inspect a tiny tree, clutching desperately with weak, new roots to the bank. It is barely as tall as his shoulders, but the brilliant green of it catches his eye. The shadows cast by larger trees, older ones, make it appear even smaller. Renoir noses at the tip and wonders - if he stayed here, right here, how big would this little tree get? Would he one day find it gone, or the biggest of them all? The king of the trees, overtaking the bank and damming the river?

He thought of this but knew it didn't matter. Soon Ren would be on his way somewhere - anywhere, nowhere - and never see the tiny tree again. For the time being, he was fixated on the beauty of it. As he began to withdraw and creep around the sapling, a small sound shot through the foliage - and he lazily lifted his head, turned and surveyed the trees and rocks and sloping hills. Quietly, almost shyly, he calls out to the darkness: 'ello?