renaissance

. . . move . . .

A whisper brushing against his consciousness, like a soft breath inhaled through his lips into his body. It was... intention, instinct. Self. His voice, my voice.

 

MOVE 

 

Louder, a demand this time. Energy surged through his limbs and the fire already alight within them, and glacial blue eyes flashed open. The world was white and cold and closing in around him, and now he knew that he would die if he did not rise from this frigid grave. There would be time later to assess his situation. Or none at all if you don't MOVE.

Ivory paws and their black claws tunneled through the layers of snowfall that had swallowed him whole. Finally, progress; fresh air rewarded his frost-blistered pads with incredible agony as it gusted unbearably against their surfaces. His face, chest, then torso all followed suit, and all were welcomed back to life by the whips of wind hitting every inch of exposed skin. 

Dragging himself to a stand, wracked by cold burns causing his body to tremble convulsively, he threw his head back and laughed. Goddamn, it was good to be alive. 

@Igor

the staff team luvs u