Winter.

Snow was quickly becoming his least favorite thing to see. And the resounding blame was cast on the season responsible. He’d already learned he was downright awful at caring for himself, almost as if he’d never had to before. It was in moments like this that he truly resented what his memory was hiding from him.

He crunched through the snow with a squint, head held level with his shoulders, the only thing in his mouth the thin tail of a mouse. It was all he could find, and even then it had been mostly an accident. He truly didn’t know how he was even going to eat it, but he was sure he’d find a way. Somehow. His shoulders shivered with every step, the cold driving daggers into his paws.

Hopefully, Rinon is alright. Vespasien thought to himself, ears laid flat against another tug of wind through his fur. He couldn’t find the boy no matter how hard he tried, chasing his own scent in circles for days at a time.

He stopped abruptly at the beige pelage through the snow, the mouse dropping from his mouth with the sudden stop.

Ah-hello? He called to the figure, hoping this was actually someone and not his own imagination and an oddly colored tree trunk.