Arrow Lake in the wind that remakes all that time has worn away

Today's imaginary scene was a dusty, desolate crater in a vast desert. Dragomir, the obvious protagonist of the story happening inside his head, was attempting to find a long lost city buried in the sand. His companion had gone off in search of water while he sifted through the sands with strange appendages, frowning as sweat dripped down his brow—

And then, with a hiccup, Dragomir's imagination stuttered to a halt and he was brought back to reality. The real reality. Those other realities in his head were real in their own way for as long as he would remember them. Which wasn't long. In less than a month he wouldn't be able to dream such things anymore. With a grunt, the neonate stretched his four skinny legs up into the air, spreading his toes and curling his tongue in a soft little yawn that ended with a clap of gums on gums. And then he went searching with ineffectual sweeps of his limbs.

In this reality he was a tiny wolf cub with hardly any senses besides taste and smell. He recognized already the distinct scents of his mother, his midwife, his father, and the other someone who was around his size and made for an excellent pillow. That was who he searched for, with occasional distress calls as he weaved and bobbed his head on his limp neck, nose working furiously, but unable to pinpoint Isilmë. He went quite the opposite direction his sister was in, paddling furiously along the den floor toward Aure's thigh.