< Got no regrets, even when I'm broke, yeah >

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Without a pause onto his target, he hammered at the muscles that kept him aloft and scaling the mountainside. He'd spotted the summit from its feet, and he had no qualms with climbing to reach it—a little excursion by himself, of proving his worth to the High Elk and his ever-evolving athleticism. 

Sides heaved and lungs were upon the brink of collapse since he took no recesses. He had reached the top and the cliff's perilous edge beckoned its champion forth to claim his reward: The skies-level panoramic view.

It was yet another sight captured and integrated into the album of his mind, already accumulating a catalogue's worth of them here. The view was simply breathtaking, in every sense of the word.

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The sky stretched on overhead, endless and limitless. Clear blue sky and white clouds, drifting and lazy.

He laid beneath the shade of a tree. The cliff’s edge far from him. And he watched, expressionless, when the man—boy—stumbled out towards the edge. Breathless and out of breath.

He scratched behind his ear with one of his back paws.

The stone beneath him warm from body heat.

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The duke's mind set sail, adrift over the clouds soaring at a paws length away. Or certainly felt so. He wondered if his mother had ever beheld such sights. And this led to wonder about his family in general. So preoccupied with one's thoughts, he was blissfully unaware of the salted-caramel man that shielded himself from the sun's rays.

Golden irises only caught a glimpse in his peripheral when he scanned the horizon to his left, which urged him then to pivot and glance over to them quickly. 'A beautiful sight, is it not?', a subtle bow how his crown in greeting, it would've been his first port of call had he spotted the lazed man before. 'Would you know of the name of this mountain?', were they local?  They looked it in the way they basked in comfort.

He continued to pant excessively as he still chased his breath. Warwick sat, half-turned to continue enjoying the scenery. 

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He rankled, rankled, like an unwilling house cat about to be pet. His ears rolled back against his head. His hackles stood on edge.

“No.” He answered.

It was a mountain. Not some fucking pack territory. Why the fuck would it have a name? Unless he wanted it to be named Swan Dive Point.

It would save them both a lot of fucking time.

It would save everyone a lot of fucking time.

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Before the words were thrown at him, he already felt the negativity. It spewed off him like a volcano on the brink of erupting. Warwick had turned to look their way for a few seconds after their answer as if they were to elaborate or continue, but they weren't interested. It was not the dukes' place to pry. 

He carried on enjoying the moment, his breath finally easing back into a lull of tranquillity, with the altitudes wind whipping at his locks while he looked on, wondering if he could spot the flecks of brown in form of his siblings that travelled with him and if they saw him come up to the top.

And then Warwick began a prayer since the silence had prolonged. A hushed muttering of gibberish nothings would be heard if the male decided to eavesdrop.

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He went on his business.

And he went on his own.

His head placed on his paws. His ears drawn back. His tail drawn close. He licked his lips. Smacked.

He let him mumble and whisper.

Nothing but fervent nonsense, directed at the wind.

He would get more results if he jumped.

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Warwick would always find a time during his long days to prey to their divinity, of thanks for their guidance, for their unsung counselling. He'd reach the top to enjoy the scenery that one shouldn't ever be complacent with. And the duke gave his appreciation to He for leading him here. 

But he wondered if that was not all the reasons for being up here. The time had come for him to move back down the cliff, and the duke took to its perilous edge to take a small peak over the crest; his stomach dropping at the sheer drop, and he felt that surge of adrenaline that most would seek day after day. 

He turned then to make his way back to the stepping stones at the side of the small mountain from whence he came. But as he did, --crack-- a small chip off the ledge etched away under his weight, giving way and pulling his left hind limb with him. Perhaps due to the extremely hot weather, it had become more brittle than ever and flaked away from the dryness. 

He tumbled, his hips now dangling over the edge and his chest and forelimbs scrambled to keep him adjusted and level on the lip of the cliff.

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He went closer to the edge.

And he hunkered down further. His ears pressed back, as flat as they could go. His body tucked to the ground as much as it could be.

Until—

He slipped.

The cliff’s edge crumbling, falling, beneath his weight, his body all but physically dragged down. His chest and forelegs holding on.

And—

“Fuck you.” He snarled, running. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

He grabbed him by the dark scruff of his neck. His four paws planted on the warm, chipping, flaking stone. His legs strained. His knees locked. He pulled and tugged.

Fucking dumbass.

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He scrambled, and with his slight weakness from his excursion, he was only a beat behind reassembling himself and hoisting himself up, but the angered man threw some unpleasantries toward him before reluctantly coming to his aid. 

Like a resemblance to his mother once carrying him, the man grabbed a little too tenderly for the duke's preference, but they were helping him nonetheless. With the sandy man tugging, he was able to use this anchor to refind his back paws, scrapping a few times and splitting one of his pads in the process, but he wouldn't notice this until back on solid ground. The adrenaline pushing that pain adrift for now.

He scooted forward to disengage himself from the other and also put more space between him and the cliff that needed a barrier around it of sorts. 

Warwick caught his breath, looking into those maddened ruby eyes, 'Thank you', the prince said almost stoically, as though he were just wanting to brush himself off from the ordeal and pick his pride up off the hot stones.

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He scowled.

Rankled.

The unwilling—unwanting—hero of the fucking story. His ears mashed back against his head. His hackles prickled and raised.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.” He growled.

Fucking idiot.

He should have let him fall.

He was a fucking embarrassment.

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There was a moment the duke felt like the stranger was on the edge of pouncing on him. Warwick felt the soft thrumming where blood seeped from his split paw, a slither of what could've happened had the circumstances been altered.

He looked at the man with a question mark on his face, followed by a frown at their sourness, before moving back to the staircase that brought him to the hazardous cliff. This was a memory to remember for sure. 

Their face was now memorised until they were to meet again. And just as he would delicately walk back down the side to rejoin his two siblings, he turned to his saviour one last time, with a dip of his crown. 'May the High Elk bless you'. And then he left them to their issues and anger.

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exit warwick -- until they meet again

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“Whatever.” He scowled. The space between his eyebrows and the bridge of his muzzle furrowed and ridged.

Fucking religious idiots.

He went his own way, back to the shade of the nearby trees, since someone apparently had to be there so fucking idiots didn’t fucking kill themselves staring over the edge.

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