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Kansas set off into the bright afternoon, leaving the lands of Crimson Dreams and heading west. Today he had finished all his tasks early in the day, an almost impossible feat for the laid-back wolf. Usually, he procrastinated tremendously, seeking hours to spend either alone, thinking, or idling blissfully with his family. Laziness was a fault he brooded over more than he tried to change. Early this morning, he awoke in a swamp of guilt for leaving his duties to fester, so he manically completed them all, leaving the entire afternoon to do as he pleased.
He still had some energy to burn. Anxiety coursed through him like electricity, urging his body into motion. If he didn't relax soon, he was going to be running into the night. Kansas allowed himself a smile as he approached a grotesquely upturned root, fancying it a perfect bench. He wondered if it had appeared there decades ago, intended to come to his use now. The frosted cherub lowered himself to the root chair and unwound himself from his satchel. From it he removed a small baggy, and immediately the strong scent entered his nostrils and he began to salivate. He loaded the pungent bud into the bowl of his metal pipe, put it to his lips and lit it with the lighter in his other hand. Inhaling deeply, the werewolf felt the smoke enter his lungs. His entire body seemed to heat and lift from the earth as he exhaled a plume of silver white smoke.
After finishing two additional stout hits, the Sadira male coughed away another cloud of smoke. While he hacked away, sudden voices sounded. His ears perked, baby blues simultaneously opening wide. He felt his entire body jerk alive, and he was on his feet in a second. He searched around him, ever-cautious of strange beasts in the forest. The chance of danger frightened him without limit. Finally, he spied two gray shapes in the distance, appearing to greet one another (though he couldn't see too clearly, the sun beaming straight to his brain). He heaved an audible sigh of relief, with it noticing that one of the wolves' scents was familiar. The smell reminded him of Rurik, the Russian man he had shared a few drinks with some months ago. Strange that they should cross paths again, thought the Dreamer. The second wolf was essentially a stranger to him, though he distinctly smelled of Dahlia de Mai.
Because of Rurik's presence, Kansas lost his fear, remembering the pleasant few hours they had spent together. Something about the elder had cheered and calmed Kansas. Now that he was actually eager to greet the pair, he cupped his smoking materials in the palm of his large pale hand and gathered his satchel strap over his shoulder. He approached them with a pleased smile on his lips, enjoying the head rush he experienced on the way. Hey, he spoke softly, his snowy tail beginning to wag. There was the smell of wine, undoubtedly from the bottle that the stranger held. Kansas let his eyes drift away from it.
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