Cricket Creek Bog Searching

this looked lonely! c:

If there is anything that Ysengrin well and truly is, then he is a wind. He is both predictable and not, nurturer and destroyer. He bears with him the rain, but he carries also the wildfire that burns. He goes where he will and he cannot be contained, though he can be withheld. On such a day as this, he is the Wandering Wind, the one who comes and goes and stays and he drifts from the Grouse Forest to the Bird Pool, to here.

He watches the sunset with his careful, calculating eyes. Rarely does Ysengrin find pleasure in such material things, for materialistic men do not survive long. Instead, he loses himself in the thrill of the hunt and the suspense that awaits him in planning for a momentous occasion. Under the light of the disappearing sun, he knows that he will be well-hidden if he desires to look for prey, but he does not. He simply prepares himself to move on.

And so Ysengrin stares with his gleaming gaze until he picks out the figure amidst the grass - plump, he thinks, and indulges himself with the possibilities. So large - surely it must be a pack wolf, for loners like him are known more for the rib-marr about their frames than fat a-plenty.

He decides not to call out, observing instead the sounds the dying crickets make, the surroundings, the sharpness of the autumn air - anything and everything. Death is not usually so... pleasant, if the chirping can be called that, but Ysen supposes that crickets and swans are alike in that matter. They all have swansongs, the final breath of the dying.