☼ a stick cracked. the wind howled, mostly running behind him. the bird's chirps became more of a blur instead of their crystal-clear songs of happiness and joy. the warrior ran, away from home, away from the familiarity of camp, away from everything he once knew. he hated himself for it. despised himself even. but he was scared. he was a coward. and there was no thing a coward could do except for run. that was what a coward was best at. tears streaked his fur, dampening it till his fur went coarse. it would dry, of course. but that would take time. maybe it would be best if he remained a coward. but he shouldn't have to become a /lonely/ coward. ☼
