Word Count → 247 :: This post is horrifyingly bad.
Seated beside the lowest falls of the Pictou River was Locke, and his attention was seemingly miles away. He held his dagger—the special one, not the ones scavenged from ancient army surplus shops—in a loose grip as he gazed out over the landscape that offered him serenity. His fingers brushed lazy circles across the flat of the engraved blade, occasionally pausing to skim across the designs etched there ages ago. Illegible carvings and symbols, but his all the same. The knife was a constant companion where all others failed.
A sigh broke loose from his lungs and he was once more connected to the present world. The slender male re-sheathed the knife before leaning forward to peer down at the current flowing by beneath his perch. Here, with the towering trees that lined the river banks, Locke was shielded from the relentless heat of the midday sun. But there was an added bonus as well: without the glare on the water, he could see the large shadows moving beneath the surface, indicative of fish. The summer spawning run.
He pulled his knee to his chest and began to roll the cuffs of his pants up, carefully folding them so that they would not easily come undone while he was wading. Though he'd not come here with the intention of fishing, he figured it would be an ample gift for the pack to thank them for their trust. Finishing the first, he began on the second.
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