fenrir


Fenrir returned to the ridge with the rising sun, the first rays of sunlight glittering off his sea-soaked, golden coat. Atlantis, and the rest of the islands for that matter, had been incredibly boring for some time. He had travelled between each of the equally boring and barely habited islands, before concluding that Atlantis was the least unpleasant. The islands as a whole, however, were not what had been promised from his father’s stories. That was the problem with stories, Fenrir concluded, they were often embellished.

Fenrir did not care about the ridge, it was, as many things are, his, but it was also not his. He had claimed it all those months ago out of convenience yet, it lacked the population to make it worth being anything more than a place; it was, after all, the individuals that make the home, not the place. Today, with an unknown mare's scent now marking the place his absence, the ridge was more "not his" than it had been in the previous months. Fenrir didn't much care about that either, he did whatever he wanted.

With a brisk stride and an unconcerned mind, he made his way from the shore and up toward the base of towering the outcrop of rock that gave the ridge its name. There was good grazing there, and he could watch the rest of the sunrise while he ate. To him, little had changed.