Chimera Fields oh, fortune fortune

There is no goal set in his code. His paws have nowhere to take him. But still, they move.
 
He sees her in the distance and halts any further movement; her form breaks the horizon of the valley as she sweeps carelessly through the new blooms on the eastern side. His toes squish between snow soaked dirt. A rumble roils from deep in his stomach and his tongue slips from his maw, grazing across the scar that trails down the right side of his muzzle. It’s tender and pink and fresh but healed. Occasionally it reminds him of the pain it once caused but he forgets the phantom of remembrance, leaving the victorious memory behind.
 
Surma stands out of the growing flowers once he crosses over and out of the tornado’s former destruction. He doesn’t try to hide himself, either, but his head hangs low as he circles her, darkened orange eyes locked onto her form.
 
A low chuff escapes him. Look at me.