Seaside Moors the paint could peel, the glass could shatter

The ache his shoulder was dulling, though the wounds themselves seemed loath to heal; deep and torn, it would likely take time and he would simply have to deal until then. Moving helped him to forget, working the muscles and skin to relieve tension. Part of him wanted to ask for help, to be bandaged up and sent on his way, but he refused himself the luxury. As far as he was concerned, he deserved this—he shouldn’t have fought his packmate, he shouldn’t have drawn blood. In doing so, he deserved exactly what he received.

Aningan was on his way to the borders when he crossed the stream, the freshwater luring him in. Suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was, he lapped at the surface until satisfied, then began following along the water’s edge—an act that led him to Rosalyn, who he wondered if knew what had happened. Swallowing his nerves, he made his way towards her with a soft chuff to catch her attention; he stood in such a way as to attempt to shield his marred shoulder from view. “Morning,” he greeted. “Out for a walk?” If he acted like everything was fine, then everything would be fine.