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The cold was receeding, the snow beginning to melt, the days slowly growing longer. That which seemed dead was beginning to rise anew from frigid blankets with renewed vigor, and tantalizing scents began to caress his snout as he walked headlong up-river. Even moving north he could not escape Spring's arrival, watching chunks of ice flow opposite of him in the water, glistening, blinding him if he stared too long. Ailden kept his head erect despite the weariness in his limbs; he had gone for too long now, much farther of a distance than usual to get away from the spreading warmth, the advent of life.
Light. Sun. Spring. Life. He wanted to get away from it all. He could not risk himself any longer.
Mist entangled his tanned limbs as he strode, orange eyes blazing the trail his paws would follow, never once looking back to see how far he had come. Metaphorical in a sense it was: Ailden denied his past with cold aloofness so unlike the campfire emblazoned upon his flank.
Ailden. Denial. Heh. What a clever and ironic pair, he thought.
The sun was beginning to set, shrouded in clouds on the horizon. The hellhound paused at last, feeling his tongue gone dry, his lips parched after the long day's travel, and he turned to his left and waded into the river several steps. His trusted guide north doubled as his soothing companion: never asking him questions, yet still providing a senseless murmur so that he would not be forced to endure silence that would pound on his ears worse than any howl. Ailden sat in the shallows and closed his eyes, allowing the water to run past him, calm him, nurture him like the mother he barely knew.
Light. Sun. Spring. Life. He wanted to get away from it all. He could not risk himself any longer.
Mist entangled his tanned limbs as he strode, orange eyes blazing the trail his paws would follow, never once looking back to see how far he had come. Metaphorical in a sense it was: Ailden denied his past with cold aloofness so unlike the campfire emblazoned upon his flank.
Ailden. Denial. Heh. What a clever and ironic pair, he thought.
The sun was beginning to set, shrouded in clouds on the horizon. The hellhound paused at last, feeling his tongue gone dry, his lips parched after the long day's travel, and he turned to his left and waded into the river several steps. His trusted guide north doubled as his soothing companion: never asking him questions, yet still providing a senseless murmur so that he would not be forced to endure silence that would pound on his ears worse than any howl. Ailden sat in the shallows and closed his eyes, allowing the water to run past him, calm him, nurture him like the mother he barely knew.
