for @Tundra
the morning sun is warm as it's rays drift across berlioz's back when the thick clouds like tufts of spun sugar aren't drifting across it and obscuring it from view, casting the terrain beneath it in shadow. the breeze, slightly tangy with the salt of the nearby sea is soft, causing the long, feathery boughs of the willows to whisper across the floor and rasp against each other. occasionally, a trunk of a willow will creak and groan with as a heavier wind rushes thru the area, lifting the prodigal fearghal son's guard hairs against the natural flow of his fur. he pauses to nip at a itch at his shoulder before giving his coat a shake and trudges on.
prey, berlioz has grasped rather quickly, is abundantly scarce in these wilds. though he cannot say for sure what point he actually entered the wilds he can make a rough estimate by the lack of venison and other large prey. it's disconcerting, now that he's traversed a few territories and realizes that it's not just territory driven. would it not be for insufferable pride he might've done the smart thing, turned around and headed back to where he last scented herds. oh but superbia was a tempting sin and he allows it to coo and fuel his ego.
so, he goes forward ...without any clear destination or path, shrugging through the boughs of the willows, alert for any presence beyond his own.
nanowrimo: 243
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