Swiftcurrent Creek yiron

beneath his desperation has always nested rage. quiet. and cold. a defense mechanism. if he is like the cold mountains then nothing can hurt him. and though his hope remained a persistent and resilient flame there were days worse than others where it grew dim. where the lack of answers or leads or trails left him despondent. it was exhausting.

or perhaps living like a vagabond was exhausting.

my father's name is anselm and my brother's name is gideon. he offers, in the hopes that maybe the names might ring any sort of bell of familiarity.

he looks at the meat with another cramping rumble in his stomach and swallows back the saliva that pools in his mouth. but he would not eat it here, not on this pack's doorstep. it felt like a charity that while he would greedily split with his mother in private, pride kept his feet still from dining on it with an audience.