Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

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for @Blackfell and @Star Eater

the birdsong led him here. for six months he'd recklessly and tirelessly traveled, eating little and sleeping less. each morning, as soon as the first rays of dawn filter down from the treetops, he would get up, and he would not lay back down again until midnight. his father would have expected no less of him.

forest turned to valley turned to tundra soon enough. permafrost provides an escape from the oncoming spring — of which veksar secretly hated, because that meant heat — and so something within him began to shift. his bones ached. his lungs burned. he never really knew if he was going to see tomorrow. settling down, at least for a short while, seemed more and more appealing to the crownore the more he thought of it and the longer the days got.

he'd been unaware of the fact that crossing further into the taiga meant entering the lion's den.

he came to a brief rest in what he could only guess was a field in the summer.  the sky above him shook its fist as thunder rolled. for a minute, just one, he felt at home.