Lake Rodney only the dead have seen the end of war

i immediately hated my decision to choose a complicated name for him as soon as i begun to type this. -_-

the morning carries with it an undeniable chill, despite the shine of the sun, occasionally obscured by the lazily drifting clouds above. maarselok's poisonous violet gaze of his good eye drifts from the sky to the vast lands yawning before him. upon his arrival, he followed the snake of the river which has led him to the lake it empties into: skirting the no-man's-land between the two packs whose scents gather on either side. unaware of the turmoil that currently plagues the wilds, he bows his head to drink from the lake, devising his next steps. autumn was in full swing — though it felt more like winter to him — soon enough the frosts would come and he would feel the push to join a pack. in the moment, though, maarselok feels content, wistful only about the hope and possibility of his brother joining him in the wilds one day.

the water is cold as he laps it up, chilling him all the way to his stomach where he feels it settle like ice for an instant. still, it is refreshing and he takes advantage of it, unsure where he'll travel next and if there will be a freshwater source where ever that may be.