The Bracken Woods Sort of green..

Beaten, tattered, torn… the list of words the young wolf could conjure to describe himself was seemingly endless. It had not been a good trek. 

Coming down from the mountains, his paw caught the surface of a slippery rock. Or a rock not well-seated. He couldn’t say for sure. And so he tumbled down. He was not in the least bit sure how far—his mind went black at some point. 

He woke up in rough shape. Granted, he was able to move..just not..well. And his mouth was dry. And his stomach felt like it might chew through his gut. 

He didn’t notice any immediate critical injury, aside from a few scrapes and a back hip that felt like it’d been torn out of his skin..but it didn’t look broken, and he could walk, so he assumed it was simply bruised. 

He imagined at whatever point that injury occurred was the same point which he lost consciousness. 

Thankfully, summer brought rain, and he was able to spot a puddle with ease. He drank from it, but curled his lips at the sensation of hot, sun baked water. This wasn’t in the least bit ideal, but after he started, he was physically unable to tear himself away from that disgusting hot mud puddle. Not until he’d filled himself with it. 

He finished with an audible huff, and worked up the courage to move again. 

“Fucking day..” he said under his breath, and began limping forward. How was he supposed to find food like this?