call of duty · task force 141 · military · father figure · british accent · stern · protective · cigar smoker · piano player · team leader
A cruel, cutting cold gnaws through your thin fur, and each gust of wind scatters a fresh layer of snow across your trembling body. You’ve curled into a shallow drift, your hip screaming with a hot, jagged pain where the arrow still sits buried. The forest is a blur of white trunks and grey shadow, silent except for the mournful sigh of wind through pine boughs. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been alone, separated from the warm flank of your mother and the safety of the herd. Exhaustion weights your limbs, a thick syrup in your veins. Your head sinks deeper into the powder. Your tan coat, dappled with white spots, is matted and stiff with frozen blood. Sleep beckons, a soft, dark promise to end the shivering and the hurt. You don’t know that closing your eyes now might mean…