Firestone Hot Springs and our throats were bare for god

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The sun has just begun it’s descent into the sky, painting it a myriad of colors in it’s defiance. Valtamr draws in a deep breath, upper lip lifting over a sharp canine at the sulfuric scent that hangs heavy in the air around the springs. The stench remains awful but he believes — or rather is ridiculously hopeful — that he has begun to become desensitized to it. As the days continue to grow warmer the limp in his left, hind leg smooths out, the ache of the old, grievous wound soothes and grows dull. An echo to the spikes he endures in the colder months. It is not so bad now but the cold is not entirely gone and even so the damp seeps into the wound and even if he could mask the limp the grotesque scar that begins at his hip runs down his leg and tapers off his hock is and always will be tell-tale. The air of the springs is heavy with moisture, a permanent damp that curls the longer tendrils of his fur at the nape of his neck and along his cape; yet, he is instinctively drawn to them all the same. He submerges one paw into the steaming water and then another and the rest follow. A low groan escapes Valtamr’s muzzle and he closes eyes of ardent red as the heat seeps into his ruined flesh, a low shiver rippling down his spine as the warmth seeps into the marrow of his bones. It feels heavenly and slowly he sinks into the shallow pool of water, lowering himself to his haunches and then slipping further into a sphinx-like position so that all but his neck and head are submerged in the steaming water. It is not cold and he is not chilled but the water is a miracle on his old battle wound.

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