i am the mace, the map, the fall and the high
The day had dawned unseasonably warm, mist rising from the snow until one could hardly see more than a nose-length ahead. To Reave, who had grown in the dense mists of the Taigan wood, it did not seem all that different from home. But there is a recklessness beating inside his breast. One that had taken root the day he’d been pieced back together on the beach.
It is painful to run, but that doesn’t stop him. Risk (they’d decided on Risk together, he and the juvenile raptor, though Reave is not entirely sure) keeps pace overhead, rising above the fog. It is as though they exist in two separate worlds. From above, the fog resembles clouds, blanketing the land in a mystical hush, as though hiding secrets of its own. For Reave, who barrels through the mists with a wild sort of abandon, any one of those secrets, terrible or otherwise, could be hiding just beyond the next blanket of white.
Here by the river, the snow churns into mud, making the terrain next to the fast-moving water treacherous and slick. It’s hard to count the number of times he nearly slips and tumbles, but he doesn’t slow. At least, not until the bank cuts away sharply where a creek joins the larger waterway.
He skids to a halt, gaze following the trail of the creek moments before he does too. But he does not race headlong this time, his steps instead more sedate as he tries to recapture the harsh breath in his lungs. Blood is oozing from the places where skin had torn away from the bone beginning to rupture through his skin, a soft glow gentling the otherwise harsh reality of his lanky form. After a moment, the muted sound of feathers causes him to pause, gaze lifting to the trees that exist only as indistinct, hulking shapes above him. Moments later, Risk settles onto Reave’s hip, claws digging into his skin as wide wings flare to steady the raptor.
reave
@[savage]