Hideaway Strath the one minute, the soldier's minute

the closer he draws to the strath the more his head buzzes like an angry swarm, like the pounding of a beast cracking at the fissured cage of his skull trying to escape. there is something here. something he knows. in the moments when he blinks, eyes closing for a few seconds longer than necessary he feels like he's falling. like the solid ground has given way beneath his paws, a tremor rocks his spine and he feels the marred flesh of his throat and face acutely. phantom teeth and claws splice flesh and he opens his eyes with a shallow gasp of air and a roll of his stomach.

muista minut.

muista kuk olet, tienraivaaja.

pathfinder.

what good is a pathfinder that is lost to the labyrinth of his own mind?

the buzzing reaches a crescendo as he draws to a stop at the clearly marked borders. borders that hadn't been there before. borders that shouldn't be there. teaghlaigh? no. no. none of them smelled familiar to him. this is wrong.

wintersbane tilts his head back, ignoring the dizzying feel of the cloud-strewn sky above that reminds him too much not of flying but of falling and calls for the pack's leaders.