DIGGER, LISTENER, RUNNER
PRINCE WITH THE SWIFT WARNING,
BE CUNNING AND FULL OF TRICK
AND YOUR PEOPLE SHALL NEVER BE DESTROYED
--- ♕ ---
PRINCE WITH THE SWIFT WARNING,
BE CUNNING AND FULL OF TRICK
AND YOUR PEOPLE SHALL NEVER BE DESTROYED
The cold comes. Unlike her, Max hadn’t felt it—(how had he not felt it? for now it is slipping deep into his bones)—until it had hit him straight in the eye. Typical. Somehow he managed to get so stuck in the suck of his own bloated tongue and the growing wails of his arid throat...
He squints up at the sky, as she does, where clouds have gathered on the endless, sun-soaked plain of blue—fat, angry things of black and bluster. So very misplaced that even he can see they are intruders here. He doesn’t need to ask her if this is normal—it is self evident, besides, by the time he is done staring shell shocked into the sky, she is commanding him onwards, yelling back over her shoulder;
—’First rule of Solterra… snow is bad news.’
He jumps forward, careening past the portcullis and through into the teeming, roiling streets. He trails the regent with a single-mindedness that has him almost trampling wide-eyed citizens, gazes skyward, skidding to stops and grunting angrily from them to move! They do so with a hard reluctance, otherwise, he must sidestep some. He hadn’t known it then, in the hinterland of Mors, but now he can see Bexley wields some real measure of power here. When she yells move, they do. When she tells them to get inside—
(He has experienced his fair share of winters. Once the stores of food were chewed through—and this happened quite quickly—the next step was woody things. Twigs. The bark off the trunks of trees. Not the most appealing of delicacies, but the cold months are lean times. It is what it is.)
She slows, and he is thankful for it, breathless and disoriented, he moves to her shoulder, long ears flicking wildly. “No kidding‒” he heaves, following her at a more manageable pace to the stronghold of the Court. “I won’t even play stupid, though it is a strong suit of mine,” he calls over the huffs of northerly wind, swirling thick flurries around his head. “This is clearly… abnormal...”—ice has begun to crystalize on the whisters of his muzzle and the eyelashes surrounding his pink-bright eyes—“do you… have any idea what is going on?”
----
@
