like a no-tell motel painting

It was not his fault! he cried, repented in his head. This was not his wish. Seasons ago when he had come back to Alacritia and found Lirika, he had wanted to stay. He had wanted to stick to her side like a fly on a gazelle. She had not been immediately welcoming, as one might expect. The goliath had played it somewhat cool – tried not to seem too eager, tried to play the same game of distance that she initially had. In the end it was he who broke his callous act (rather quickly, to be sure), but only to mild avail. Lirika had needed time to decide if she forgave him, and that scared him. He didn’t want to rush her, in fear of upsetting her. Now though, he thought that giving her room had been the worst decision of his life, because he had lost her again. Where had she gone?! He had searched high and low in Alacritia, and then outside of it. Better judgment (hopefully) had led him back. He had decided that he would stay here. Maybe she was here again. And if she wasn’t, then maybe she would come back, and see that he had faithfully awaited her return.

He clenched his teeth as he thought, his brow creasing while he walked. He was going no place in particular – wandering in vague hopes of finding something interesting, someplace to install himself. The West of Alacritia suited him, drew him in. It was barren and harsh and uninviting. His current location was especially cracked and arid, and the wind came along in burly gusts that threw his fur up in all the wrong directions. He kind of liked it though. The beast expelled a heavy sigh from his nostrils and hunched his broad shoulders a bit, his head seeking refuge from the wind as it lowered level with his spine. The outline of his trekking figure on the horizon was a sullen sight, both scornful and scorned in a similar environment.