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It was wrong of him to wander away, wrong of him to confess what ails him. Mother would be angry, he muses as he tediously clambers from the Mountain toward the open meadow. His jaws clench stressfully and his eyes dart back and forth as though expecting Valdis to step out from her cover and reprimand him.
Yet he is met with silence.
There are frogs croaking nearby and a whistling breeze, but there are no voices calling out to him, no shouting. A quivering breath is pulled into his lungs and it drenches him in new scents that would otherwise frighten him away, but Erio remains steadfast in his travels with the faery’s instructions echoing in his mind. Admittedly, he knew not what to expect from the experience nor what could truly help him. He just knew it was worth a try.
Here, with the world unraveling in front of him, is where Erio’s insecurity rises like the tide. Emotion climbs up his throat and chokes him of air. He takes pause, his small hind leg in midstep as his hazel eyes again dart back and forth. Out of comfort – and now, habit – his body contorts and shifts into his counterpart. His coat lengthens and claws take place of his hooves. A hellhound is what mother called him once with a heavy sigh following as though disappointed. Such a ferocious name, he thought, and yet he doesn’t have any primal or instinctual rage. It doesn’t change him
As a small hellhound, he could easily be missed in the tall grass if not for the winter season withering what vegetation still clings to life. His triangular ears pivot and his eyes dance in search of someone to settle the nerves winding to life in his solitude.
Yet he is met with silence.
There are frogs croaking nearby and a whistling breeze, but there are no voices calling out to him, no shouting. A quivering breath is pulled into his lungs and it drenches him in new scents that would otherwise frighten him away, but Erio remains steadfast in his travels with the faery’s instructions echoing in his mind. Admittedly, he knew not what to expect from the experience nor what could truly help him. He just knew it was worth a try.
Here, with the world unraveling in front of him, is where Erio’s insecurity rises like the tide. Emotion climbs up his throat and chokes him of air. He takes pause, his small hind leg in midstep as his hazel eyes again dart back and forth. Out of comfort – and now, habit – his body contorts and shifts into his counterpart. His coat lengthens and claws take place of his hooves. A hellhound is what mother called him once with a heavy sigh following as though disappointed. Such a ferocious name, he thought, and yet he doesn’t have any primal or instinctual rage. It doesn’t change him
As a small hellhound, he could easily be missed in the tall grass if not for the winter season withering what vegetation still clings to life. His triangular ears pivot and his eyes dance in search of someone to settle the nerves winding to life in his solitude.
erio