His unwillingness to accept the reality of his circumstances does little to stifle his pride, his conviction. (His ego). Calais is fury unrelenting, all things tousled fur and pinched nose. Even his easy saunter carries a tightness beset by uncertainty. He is used to understanding everything. From the birds in the trees to the whims of the wind. That he does not is unsettling, at best.

At worst, embarrassing.

He must look like a newborn fawn, traipsing about the forest as he is. Snow is not unfamiliar, but he's never seen it so deep, so bitterly cold. It might be enjoyable were he drunk enough, but Calais has never felt more sober in his life. And now all he can think about is the way his knees are knocking, shoulders shuddering. Snowflakes gather on the fringes of his eyelashes. Small, white speckles dust across his long, skinny back.

For days, he's wandered in circles.

Torn in indecision—either waiting here where he awoke for help to arrive, or setting off in a last throe to help himself—Calais wanders no further than just within earshot. But the monotony, and the cold, of the forest is making him weary.

Whatever he decides, he must decide soon.

With an overexaggerated huff, he shoves his face into a bank of snow. Hoping, bleakly, that the frost might just wake him up.

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ooc. for Gjalla ! ;u;

LATE SORRY

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gjalla has been there much longer than she should have been—so long that snow has begun to gather along her spine and ears, so long that her nose has dried from cold. periwinkle eyes fix on the stranger with unwavering intensity, and for a while, he only manages to perplex her further.

he wanders. circles himself thin, knees knocking with his pride leaking out of him in visible steam. he is lost. more than that, he is irate. the man proves as much when he shoves his head straight into the snow as if he is an ostrich.

no effort is made to hide the bemused stare she gives him upon her approach. what are you doing.