Redsand Canyon Hey, you’re a crazy bitch

Santi’s journey lead him from the land of dead trees, to dangerous mountains. Still searching for Clarence, he honestly doesn’t even know where to look — doesn’t even know where to start. Still, he travels and travels until his paws ache. Up and up a mountain, weaving i between rocks that eventually opens up into a canyon painted in blood. 

He steps forth onto the hot sand and tucks his chin to watch his paws sink into it. It only captures his attention before he eyes the horizon. Trudging forward he begins walking. Sniffing the ground, black and white fur gathering up the red sand as the wind picks up. The heat doesn’t bother him, the sand doesn’t bother him, what does bother him is the fact that he still hasn’t found Clarence yet.

He rode into the canyon on the wings of the bleeding sun.

The land was red, redder than any land Robbie had ever seen. A labyrinth of towering spires of scorched and wind-beat sand. The deserts down south paled in comparison, and Robbie wondered if he had finally found the place he'd heard only whispered in fables.

His spine tingled at the prospect, and he knew he should be careful; he could hear ma's voice, as if she'd brushed up close like she'd always done, and was shrieking into his ear like she would've done as he'd left, if he hadn't announced his departure in front of the entire wild west - but he knew her eyes must be twinkling now, in jealousy, probably, that she'd never found the nerve to get out here herself.

A water mirage twinkled along the sands, and now and again, Robbie thought he saw movements, and every now and again, he set out to investigate. And that's what he set himself to follow now - a particularly strange mirage, of a wolf who seemed to have no place among the sands.

Oh my gosh sorry I just saw this! Also love the face claim <3

The Spaniard looks here and there, up and down — he finds nothing of poor little Clarence. He’s been searching for so long already, but he knows he’ll find him sooner or later. Someone would know. Someone would give him a lead. 

For now, he has a break of concentration on the thoughts of his long, lost mate. Another wolf, a deal smaller than he, much less muscle mass, and an oddly distracting agouti pelt. He sees him out of the corner of his eye. His only remaining eye that is. 

His head is hung even with his shoulders, ruined ears flick backwards, if he had a tail, it’d be comfortably lowered near his hocks. Instead, it is but a stump — a tuft of white fur at the end of his spine. His steely gaze looks over, completely turning his head to the stranger. Revealing a face riddled with deep, scabbed over wounds in such abundance most wonder if he’s gotten yanked around by a bear. No, he didn’t, but close enough. 

“Buenas tardes, forastero.” He rasps. His voice horrible sounding from disuse. It’s accompanied by a once over from his single eyed gaze. “Lost, amigo?” He hums almost teasingly with a twinge of a smile, even though it hurts to do so.

Hover for translation.