Blackfeather Woods each night reunites me with the feral tenderness of my own evil

it does not occur to wintersbane that they are not seeing the same things.

the fact that the high of the mushroom caters to the individual's mind and does not have a general effect or experience for everyone is one that he misses. the concept goes over his head; his mind far too hazy to consider such complex things. he blinks his attention away from his pale companion, out towards the ghosts that writhe and hears a sharp, shrill caw from the foggy depths. his ears splay to the side and he visibly jumps, the sound startling in the otherwise silence that engulfs him, broken only by the sounds of his pale pack-mate, that wintersbane realizes with a swing of his heavy head in his direction, wasn't near him any longer. the other's footsteps, wintersbane thinks. that's what he's heard after the startling caw of a raven overhead.

the tundrian scowls up at the treeline but lets out a long yawn as the tiredness settles deep in his bones from coming down off the high. the delta will be asleep before long. his eyelids grow heavier with each passing second and the ghosts have finally vanished back behind the veil that closes on it's curtain call. he glimpses at mou once to see how the other male is faring before he rises to his legs, stretches and heads off to find a secluded place to rest.

edited in a conclusion for archival.