cigarette daydreams

The heathen had made his way out of the dry and cracked West of Alacritia through mostly aimless wandering, although now his route drifted closer and closer to that mountain he’d first found Lirika in. It was magnetic; he did not consciously want to go there, but he had nothing else to do and so each thoughtless step took him closer… If anything, he specifically didn’t want to go, for he disdained the hope that he harbored that she might be there waiting for him. He knew it was so unlikely, so why did he still hope? He hated hope.

A gruff sigh rolled from wrinkled jowls, his forehead crinkled and pricked with the irritation of his previous realization. As if in half-hearted attempt to defy the inevitable pull towards Fenrir’s Maw, Svetovid would turn from his general path to head towards the smell of water. He needed a drink anyways. Up ahead cattails bobbed at the edge of a sandy shore. It looked… nice, actually. The afternoon sun shimmered of the dark, sprawling surface of the lake. There was a slight breeze, and the air was warm. The pale wolf paused some several yards from the lake, stared at it for a moment as if he expected something to jump out and assault him, and then proceeded forward having decided that it was alright.

The sand felt good under his toes as he walked to the edge, dipping only his front feet in a tad before bending down to drink. The water was cool and quenched his thirst in a matter of a few laps. He straightened, and glanced across the lake from the new viewpoint. No longer partially hidden by the cattails and foliage, he could see that it was quite big. Bugs chirped from the grass, but the birds were quiet. It was a fairly calm, peaceful day and beyond how much he detested being anything other than sullen and cynical, he enjoyed the tranquility of it all.