Deepwood Weald the scavenger feeds in hum of low sea

She'd spurned him today, when so many other days had been a different sort.

He had half-expected such with the season; it was the same song and dance that had entangled them prior, the same game where she would play hard to get and he would play hard to keep. Even aware of this, he could not quiet the rage of a basal roar, and off the mountain he strode. To clear his mind or entertain himself otherwise remained to be seen. Perhaps Hydra would have him later.

The snow slowed him only some, though by the time he had found the familiarity in jutting stone and choking wood the day seemed half over and it was yet to breach midday. Choking more was the grey clotting the sky; the snow abated here, perhaps just for him, but never too long.

The weald stirred memories that flickered through its hallowed keep, a few more vibrant than others. He thought then of Nyx but was swift to stamp it down; he had once pulled at loose threads such as these, but when had the threads once close to him become concern? She had seemed content, or as content as one could muster when things still seemed scarce.

He moved sure and steady along old paths not yet covered, where the snow held down obstacle over obstacle and provided a way. He'd not go much further than this if he dared to return before the darkest pits of night, though the urge was there... and the ocean far closer than it had been for an age untold. His steps slowed until they ceased and here a sigh left him—was this discontent escaping? Was not he not content, or merely frustrated?

Dirge cared not for the taxation of winter, and longed for spring.