The witching hour.
He wasn't sure how he got here, or frankly where he came from. There was only darkness in the confines of his memory, darkness - and death. Which the boy already had a solid understanding of, that was why he was here ─ he knew. Death. Death lived here and so shall he as its sole beacon.
Its vessel.
Little charcoal rump was set in the snow, sitting in a lazy sort of way where he was rolled onto one hip and rear legs jutted out awkwardly from beneath his rounded belly. He stared emptily pointing his nose toward the entrance of a cave's maw. While he could see nothing but the dark, his senses; those of smell and sound brought his world to life inside his mind, and made his location into a tapestry.
Colors danced in his head like the northern lights, the cave the center of it all, rich and earthly and...ancient. Little rounded ears would twitch, catching the soft squeaking of activity from within, but the tiny bundle of nocturnal air wouldn't move, gathering a light dusting of snow upon his back as he sat ─ and he waited.
--
for Sreda
❝ ❞
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