Twisted Slough hair metal on a japanese boombox

@Cry

they'd been separated, somehow, in the storm. he'd spent hours searching frantically through the thrashing wind and snow, distraught and chilled to the bone — and he'd found nothing. worse than nothing; a few fading scent trails, a tuft of hair, blood.
his hysteria has brought him blindly to a strange and rather horrible place. winter has only worsened the maze of thick vines and gnarled trees choking the foul swamp, overlaying the place with ice and snow that does nothing for the awful smell. it's terrible. it's hell, probably. and he has already quite given up on conquering it; exhausted, hysterical, and alone in a way he'd hoped to never feel again, the boy had collapsed some hours ago. he'd simply allowed himself to fall where he stood, a little dramatically, against the snowy swampy smelly ground — and that is where he is now. it doesn't occur to him that he could freeze to death this way, small and thin-furred as he is; he'd lost his grasp on rational thought long before he'd collapsed.