Firefly Glen achilles come down

lorcan’s paws crunch softly against the snow, lengthy strides unhurried as he moves along the edge of the glen. the air is sharp, biting at his nose and clipped ears, and they twitch in retaliation. he is a native to the cold, and yet, at times he finds it unbearable.

he would be glad to see the spring thaw.

he pauses near the base of a twisted old tree, leaning down to sniff at the snow. there’s a faint scent there—but nothing worth his time, he concludes, yet its enough to make him huff softly, pawing at the frozen ground beneath.

always the same, he mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing as he straightens, his breath curling faintly in the frosty air. walk, sniff, nothing. the corners of his scarred lips twitch into the faintest smirk, though there’s no humor in it.

same old shit.