((Total Word Count - 1904))
These were strange lands, to be uncloaked in snow even at this time of the year. Moshe’s steady march to the Bottom of the Earth was slow and tedious without the familiar chill of atmosphere and altitude to pull away the heat generated by his large, bulky self, but down in the forests where things grew close and cramped…
It felt as though the sheer, stifling heat would kill him.
Not outright, either, the way he always supposed would be his demise. No, the heat was a slow assassin, hiding in his fur and gathering spittle about his lips, taking him by the lungs and strangling without mercy. Wallowing in dirt and shade would do him no good. But neither would stopping, or letting it truly kill him, not when he finally figured he had something important to do.
Find the gray she-wolf with red eyes. Simple enough… for the more gregarious traveller, maybe. He hadn’t truly been asked to track down this illusive creature, but there had been agreat deal of stress and worry in the voice of the snow-coloured female looking for her. Gray fur, red eyes. Gray fur, red eyes…
What he hadn’t really thought of, while on this self-imposed quest, were the exact words he would be giving to this uniquely-coloured creature when he did find her. Not so much because he hadn’t caught the name of the one looking for her, but rather - well - his own shortcomings in the world of language. How his tongue failed him even in the most dire of situations, when clarity and sense were needed to avoid catastophe! He could think of florid terms in which to use - madam, if you would spare a moment - I’ve news of a relative searching for you desperately - if I could describe her to you, maybe you would recognize her and go to her at once -
But, realistically, he’d probably lose his tongue and make an a** out of himself. Again.
To be honest, how many other wolves could have faced death in the snow of the mountains? How many others could he possibly find that were from the Northern reaches, and had seen the deaths of comerades - never mind how the act had come to pass? Fate was being a naughty beast, in taking him the way of those whom he might accidentally beguile into believing their dearest kin had died in terrible ways. He could only chalk up that encounter with the snow wolf to fate, or destiny, or perhaps the sheerest of terrible lucks, the likes of which seemed to cling to him with the same intensity of the burning, humidified air. He felt as though he was trapped in some monster’s mouth, pressed between its teeth where he could not budge and forced to breathe the reeking rotted-plant scent of its breath.
He could only hope and pray that he was hearing the grgles of a river, or else face going mad with exhaustion.
~~~
Isobel was worried. Isobel was always worried, yes, but oh - today seemed to feel worse than usual. Worse than so many other occasions in her life where worry had given way to the more potent feeling of panic, though practically by the same cause. What had she to worry about?
… What hadn’t she to worry about, really?!
Oh, Chimera. Dear little brother, dearest little danger to himself. How much would he be willing to do before it destroyed him?
She was trying to run off the stress, trying to sweat it out by testing the limits of her limbs. Lean as they were, they still curled like pistons beneath her silky fur, her toes spreading to grip the ground, her tail straight out behind her like a great rudder to keep her balance intact. How far would her legs be willing to stretch? How tightly could she make them bunch? She wanted to think numbers and statistics, cementing the goal in her mind’s eye as being a full circuit of the pack’s boundaries - something she’d never been able to do before, not when at a full, tear-blurring sprint.
How fast could she go? Could she keep pace with the river? No, the river was much slower than she was at this time of year, if not still a threat to those who couldn’t swim or those who were particularly young. Memories of a youth pushed to the back of her mind whispered stories of her sister, and how she could train herself against the river if she felt the danger was sufficient. Isobel hadn’t been quite that entrepreneurial, even if she did find joy in doing battle with the local oaks. The risks seemed to be much more realistic when trying to climb a tree, versus walking out onto one with all the ferocity of a river below her.
Still, she could force herself to be faster. She could be more ferocious, and leap further, almost to the point where it felt as though she might as well have grown wings. It wasn’t enough to make her forget her lamentations about the recent doings of her youngest brother, but it was enough to keep her from going down under pressure.
He wasn’t eating enough - or was burning energy at a greater rate than what he was taking in, either one. He was being deliberately double-toned, snide, and even rude where he felt he could get away with it. Sure, he did what he was expected to do as a slave, but…
But he wanted to regard life as a challenge, and everyone in it as the enemy he needed to fight. And how was she going to prove him wrong? How could she deny he accusations when even she believed there was truth to them, when they were angled toward the doctrines they were supposed to follow as members of Antianeira? Especially when he had been given a taste of a world without slavery, and what it could be like for him if he would just run off and do his own thing.
Was she going to lose him?
