Sleeping Dragon I will sweep it beneath the carpet

As the wind blew against and around the trees he watched, gaze trailing after a leaf here and there as they were dragged down towards the ground. It’d captivated his attention as well as made him more curious. After considering his options—watch the leaves fall or give Portia his full attention—his head had turned so that he could see his mentor, whose words kept him from looking away again. To learn from her was something that he enjoyed, even if the lesson pertained to something that bothered him; autumn was unusual and seemed to be a time of death, the latter note being a negative that he couldn’t get passed. Even as the reason was (sort of) explained to him, he couldn’t find a way to enjoy the season and what he could see that it was doing. Yet, in spite of that, he could still see and understand how one might find it to be a beautiful thing—he just wasn’t one of those wolves.

With a shake of his head, he said, “No.” Something about the colours unsettled him just as greatly as the death that he associated the season with did. Why, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t prevent the prickling of his skin whenever he looked out over the trees and saw the warm hues. “It’s killing everything,” noted the Viking. “Why?” The discomfort felt was something that he could get passed, but not the loss of plant life. Why did everything have to die?