Swiftcurrent Creek Precious and Fragile Things

He shook his pelt. A turning of the face of the moon, the cusp of the seasons, and then Dovev would be observing a full year in Teekon Wilds. This far south, the leaves had yet to change and fall to the earth, the grass still retaining its youthful green tint. It brushed his belly as the specimen lifted his frame, leaving an imprint in the emerald carpet. It's healthy verbena was fed by the stream rushing past, it's raspy call making the trees branches sway in the air. A soft fog had rolled in on the cool morning, settling drops of dew on bent blades. The water had seeped into Dovev's hairs, and he was apt to start moving about and air out his coat.

A wolf has an unforeseen path-finding tool, something that allows them to make the most efficient movements while keeping their graceful demeanor. The arctic creature had nothing but a sure footing as he traipsed rocky ledges that the creek tumbled and spilt over, casting up trails of mist through the light fog. Soon the sun would split the mountains in half with powerful summer rays that would burn the fog off, but for now the valleys had created pockets of humid, cold air that clung to his bone-hued jacket like sticky resin. His lightly parted lips created a small basin for the vapor to settle, and his gray eyes were twinkling with the ticklish fingers of the fog stroking his tongue.

Even if his large frame was built for the rocky terrain that, for most of the year, was cut off from the rest of the world by snow, the summer months stripped Dovev of his down. It wouldn't be long before the fur regrew, but for now, his legs, joints, ribcage, and chest were clearly defined as there was no protective padding of hair to shield his ligaments. The considerable amount of weight Dovev had shed since arriving in last year's early fall reflected from the round planes about his eyes to the limp swing of his tail behind his haunches. His inner cool flame still flickered behind his pools, the desire for more, not such unlike the glinting of sun in midday was enough to keep him moving. He knew the border was close by the way his nose became more and more assuaged with the scents, and it was just another test.

Would the border hold?
He now stood on that unspoken line, the broad plane of his holding nothing royal, but something more akin to the stoic ice floating in dark seas. There would be no call. There will be the test of his will and the other's own, his own little game that he found to be most beguiling. How long would he wait until he could step into this guarded realm and have a little fun?