Alpine Lake the crownless again shall be queen

Find Skellige.

Szymon ached, from his weary paws to his habitually curved spine to the base of his clenched jaw. He had to get to the coast — he had to get to the sea. If Skellige was here, oceanside would be the only plausible place to find him — and if he wasn’t, Szymon would at least be able to breathe without feeling the asthmatic weight of claustrophobia clamping down on his lungs. The woodland he traipsed through wasn’t terribly dense, but the monotony of trunk after trunk after trunk — aftertrunkaftertrunkaftertrunk, sourly thought the youngest Cairn boy — had set his already frayed nerves on edge. Would he never again taste the tang of salt or feel the press of sand between his toes?

Panting raggedly in the summer heat that seemed merciless despite the smatterings of shade, Szymon broke free of the treeline, oblivious to the picturesque tableau that cast him in a golden silhouette as he dove headlong into — goddamn it — the next set of trees. He followed the river upstream, if only to get to a higher elevation and find a cliff to fling himself off of scout the area with better success. Motes of plant matter or dust drifted lazily through the air, filling Szymon’s nose until he sneezed — it felt too loud, and his sulphereous eyes glittered this way and that as he flinched reflexively, loathing the soft sound of his hitching breath. A shiver ground its way down his spine as he shook his head with forcible intent and pushed forward again.

Find Skellige.

Yes. Okay. Find Skellige.

A low, guttural rattle midway between a whine and a growl chattered its way between Szymon’s fangs as he edged his way out of the distasteful copse and flung his head high above his shoulders — a rare gesture, and one he wouldn’t have dared if any onlookers were present. Breathing deeply of the air, his scarred muzzle quivering as his tongue flicked nervously out to heighten his sense of smell, Szymon allowed his tattered ears to swivel this way and that. Water. It was freshwater and lacked the brine so loved by the Cairn brood, but he could hear it talking now — falling water meant elevation, and elevation meant a greater line of vision. Large, capable paws spurred into a sprint, air spilling more easily into the young wolf’s lungs now that he was free of his tree trunk prison; lean shoulders rolled beneath his pollen-dappled pelt as he reached the base of a mountain littered with waterfalls.

Up. Find Skellige.

It took a fair amount of time, but soon the lake loomed just before Szymon. Made careless by his exhaustion and the belief that he was alone, he stumbled like a sailor drawn to a siren’s song and crashed to his elbows, his hind legs holding him up as he dipped his entire head below surface. It was the briefest of moments before he lifted his head again, tossing it high and blinking rapidly to clear his golden eyes of water. Then, feeling slightly refreshed from his unceremonious baptism, Szymon parted his muzzle and drank deeply.