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The winter had ended, and when the spring began to spread throughout the world, he knew somehow to return. It was something that happened, like how the trees knew to change their colors, or the flowers knew it was safe to rise out of the nothingness of the melting ice; Tryphon wasn't fully aware of it himself, only that he needed to continue tracking the game as it fled from one point to the next. The herd had re-entered the wilds and before he knew it, the familiar landmarks (although distant) came in to view.
The day had started out with a brisk shower, but that had faded by mid-morning. The sun beamed down across the sparsely populated moors but it was not a warm sun. It seemed, at least to the vagabond, that the chill of winter had not left some parts of the world. The sky was streaked with thin gray clouds. The wind whipped between the trees, whistled across the waterways, and pulsed with great insistence at Tryphon as he loped along.
There were signs that the elk he tracked had been here, but no matter where he looked, Tryphon could not see them. It was more likely they had passed through these flatlands in search of stronger cover — as he ought to do — yet the lure of fresh water was too great. He chose instead to seek out a patch of the heath from which he could sate his thirst, and there he stopped, breathing heavily but otherwise content in his decisions.
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The winter had ended, and when the spring began to spread throughout the world, he knew somehow to return. It was something that happened, like how the trees knew to change their colors, or the flowers knew it was safe to rise out of the nothingness of the melting ice; Tryphon wasn't fully aware of it himself, only that he needed to continue tracking the game as it fled from one point to the next. The herd had re-entered the wilds and before he knew it, the familiar landmarks (although distant) came in to view.
The day had started out with a brisk shower, but that had faded by mid-morning. The sun beamed down across the sparsely populated moors but it was not a warm sun. It seemed, at least to the vagabond, that the chill of winter had not left some parts of the world. The sky was streaked with thin gray clouds. The wind whipped between the trees, whistled across the waterways, and pulsed with great insistence at Tryphon as he loped along.
There were signs that the elk he tracked had been here, but no matter where he looked, Tryphon could not see them. It was more likely they had passed through these flatlands in search of stronger cover — as he ought to do — yet the lure of fresh water was too great. He chose instead to seek out a patch of the heath from which he could sate his thirst, and there he stopped, breathing heavily but otherwise content in his decisions.
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always dreamed of grass and splendid evenings - by Larus - March 22, 2017, 06:50 PM