Barrow Fields i am fire bleeding smoke

@Caiaphas or @Drogon

He'd crept down from the north without any issue, urged by the basic pursuits of any true wolf: the need for food, sustenance, and purpose. The mountains posed no difficulty until he scented a myriad of warnings, and deviated towards the heartland; but the scent of the sea drew him along the plateaus and out again, until he was slipping through an open paddock filled with budding wildflowers.

Wandering insects earned death with a snap — black flies mostly, buzzing about him as if he himself were dead. Once he caught a bee and rushed to press his tongue to the roof of his blocky maw, crushing the insect before it could sting. It tasted sour, and made him gag. Eventually the dog grew bored with the insects and roamed the field with his head cast low to the earth, the arch of his broad shoulders a boar-like indication of his trajectory; behind him, the grass had been crushed and parted to suit his burdensome shape.

Thus far there was nothing of use here — just the scent of fresh grass and sickly-sweet plants, with the intermittent wave of brine when the seaside currents blustered inland.