Swiftcurrent Creek Invert

The dark form of the Mayfair snaked along the creek edge—gaze, every so often, lingering to the direction of the rapidly rushing waters. It wasn’t a body of water known for it’s calmness—no, it was as tumultuous as the pack that resided  near it, and he found a wane smirk pulling at his lips at the thought.

Still—there were oft times he would pause, watching the waters and feeling that sense of apprehension he tried not to linger upon. The day he had almost drowned, all those moons ago. Searching for a daughter—while his wife accepted his death and moved on with another.

Then, upon his return, the death of his wife. The absence of his other daughter… and now, three more failed children.

The weight of it was as much a punch to his gut as anything, and he slowed his pace now—feeling a wave of nausea as an air of coldness became more prominent. He looked tot he waters—his reflection—scarred, grizzled—stared back at him.

And he once more found that he wished Moss hadn’t bothered to save him, those moons before.