Wapun Meadow boy made of ash and a honey soaked dawn

@Dolce

the morning is quiet. a mist clings to the undergrowth like breath held too long, dampening the earth beneath tvar’s paws as he moves along the fringe of the valley. pale light filters through the trees—soft, cold. everything is muted.
now that they've set off at a trek, he doesn't speak. he rarely does on patrol, preferring the language of motion: the flick of an ear, the sweep of his gaze, the silence between steps. he knows the land like the lines of his own scars. each ridge, each thicket, every crooked tree burned into his memory.
his eyes scan the horizon, where something lingers. the fog too low, the wind too quiet. he pauses at a small rise, head lifting. a crow calls in the distance. he watches it disappear into the fog. and just as he turns his head to look over at dolce...
there comes a snarl. low, guttural, rabid. joined by several others, one after the other, and that is when he sees them. creeping in closer, eyes flashing beneath the thick of the fog. tvar stiffens—looking over at the man he'd called to accompany him this morning.