Whitebark Stream displaced

The drag-heel manner of the dark shape did not dissuade Larus from approaching. Maybe he had not noticed it, or maybe he had noticed but in the time it took to stride a few more feet, he had forgotten. Either way the wolf continued on his approach. He paused briefly when the sound of rumbling rose up from the slick, mud-colored stranger. He lifted his head; looking more regal than anything, although this also did not last. The stranger's sneezing fit did not alter anything about Larus' composed expression; he looked evermore like his stalwart father, chiselled of granite, the burning mountain casting the diorite of his guard hairs with faint autumnal glow.

The stranger draws back, and Larus drifts closer, dropping his head back down so that it is level with his shoulders, a lazy, lethargic energy overtaking his previous interest. He looks over his shoulder to the mountain gushing fire as if he has only just noticed it for the first time, and his gaze lifts, brightens, eyes alight—it isn't dawn, is it?

The sun—he glimpses in another direction and sees it finally, glowing down at him. No, not dawn then. The wolf, he sees again, his gaze focusing upon them again, confused but curious too, forgetting—always forgetting. He calls to the stranger with a boorish little grunt, and waves his tail while around him the world falls apart.