Firestone Hot Springs You eat us up

Large set paws carry him forth, his pace is languid but his body feels rigid and uneasy. The fruit of his travels, it seems. Sore and aching muscles bulging beneath his softly curling fur. Damn the salty sea water. 

But as he goes, he sees a glimmer of stark white by one of the pools. A wolf. They crawl into the water and stretch. His eyes squint and his own auds shift forward when their head turns in his direction. He attempts to lock gazes and he closes in at the same leisurely pace. His snout tilts up some as he goes, sniffing the air and attempting to take in their scent. He doesn’t get anything, perhaps he’s upwind. So he drops his head to the ground and sniffs there too, eyes still turned up to watch the stranger. Surely they’d see his unyielding gaze as he tries to catch their scent.

He doesn’t though. He even tries putting a memory to their far away face, but nothing comes to his hazy mind. So, he prowls closer and closer. Finally coming within ten or so feet, he toes the edge of the pool this she wolf sits in. Circling it like a predator to its prey. He’s deadly silent and hasn’t said a word, surely it would put the paler on edge. With his primal yet calculating gaze, a dark tongue flicks out to rasp over scarred lips, offering a peek of long, deadly teeth as he does so. 

His brows are pinched and his eyes seem troubled. He knows this wolf, but from where? How? How does he so easily forget faces? What’s wrong with him? It’s just every face he tries to remember meshes and fades. They’re all the same in his minds eye — foggy and distorted. His memory from young fails him often nowadays. It strikes a red hot anger in his chest. How does one’s memory just deteriorate like that? Was it the childhood trauma? Maybe. Was it an injury he sustained from his past that made him like this? Maybe. Either way, he has no fucking clue.

So he prowls around them for a few heart wrenching seconds, his aura is threatening and his eyes are dangerous. But finally he stops and stands still, gaze burning holes into the woman before him.

“Who are you?” He asks, voice a low rumble, but it comes out more like a statement. Almost as if he’s asking himself. “How do I know you?” He says then. His tone never heightening in question. Because he knows her. He knows he does. There’s a touch of a growl laced into his unforgiving tone. As if he angry at himself for not knowing. 

It’s because he is. 

His mind is deteriorating and he suspects it’s because of Banesteppe and his ghostly manipulations. But what can he do? 

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