Grouse Thicket Where the wild things are.

no worries! have not really been around for the past couple of weeks 8)

even avoiding her gaze, he is certain she is…unimpressed. it may have been a spectacular leap to catch the grouse whose body lies still at his feet, blood still sharp on his tongue; caligula has not been able to even maintain the illusion of competence since he fled from his father’s jaws, bleeding scarlet over the snow –

and this –

caligula shuts his eyes, gives a furious shake of his head as he might to dislodge water from his ears – no. no, it is not the time. he cannot keep doing this – again and again and again, brought back into his head every time through fault of his own –

his heartbeat rabbits into his throat, insistent, wholly disregarding his wishes. in front of him, the wolf moves among the ferns, words forming on her lips – and then to his side, nose to the ground, circling now –

his breathing sharpens, rushing in and out of his lungs. what had she said, what was she saying – something about –

herbs. he clings onto the single word with tooth and claw, following her gaze down to the patches of grass underfoot. they mean nothing to him – a tangle of weeds and flowers and fronds, some trampled down to the earth already by his own paws.

he keeps staring until he sees green instead of white and red.

“i…do not know herbs,” he says at length, voice regaining some shred of confidence as he speaks – though confidence is a generous word, applied to him. “it…there is something you are looking for?”