Swiftcurrent Creek Let the past die. Kill it if you have to.

Yesssssssssssssssssss

He could smell another clearly; his senses keen in the cold winter air -- sharpened by the chill. His tuned his ears back and listened intently for footfalls. The Nereides he hid from were still an active worry in the back of Whip's mind, though, he found it unlikely that they would find him here. They most likely assumed him dead, killed off by the winter or starvation, or a combination of those two. He was hungry and the winter was hard, but he lived. Whip thought himself to be a machine fueled only by spite and anger. He would not give them, or anyone, the satisfaction of being right.

At the sound of footsteps, Whip bristled defensively. The hair on his back instinctivly stood on end. A warning growl passed his lips, not of anger but of caution. If a stranger was going to approach Whip, he wanted it to be on his own terms. He stepped forward, letting his defences fall just enough to try smelling the ruff of the stranger's neck for any sign of the sea.