Ψ · Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Before the wolf could respond, the surroundings were suddenly steeped in white, rolling fog. His nostrils flared, snorting out a breath of brief alarm before he steadied himself, hide twitching. The fog was thick, as if filling his lungs instead of the salty ocean wind, and he steadied himself, ears flicking and swiveling. He could no longer see, but he could hear and feel.

Interestingly, the fireflies were still visible, though the wolf was obscured behind him. It was cloistering, overly intimate, and he wondered idly if horses had felt this way when transported in the strange contraptions his mother had called trailers. He’d never seen one himself, but his mother had experienced them personally as a filly before everything had changed for her in life.

“Beastly,” she’d called them, “But I learned to get used to them, and we’d often be in interesting new places when they next opened the door, so… It was alright in the end. But I don’t miss the feeling of them beneath my hooves, rattling and swaying.”

A smile touched his lips as the memory of her story settled his nerves, and he let his head lower, serving to steady his heart rate as he let his whiskered muzzle pass over the ground ahead of his feet, one ear canted toward the edge of the cliff and the far below roar of surf, and the other flicking toward the land-side, quieter and yet rife with night creatures, not to mention many day animals confused by the bright, always moon. Ahead, the fireflies beckoned, and he followed cautiously.

It was still difficult to breathe even at hoof level, but he pressed on, calling back, “If you can’t see, put your nose to the ground and follow my scent through my hoof prints. I’m going carefully.”

He could very well be the only one experiencing the fog, though he had to admit it was an incredibly vivid hallucination, if so.

Walk ---- "Speak" ---- "Hear" ---- Think