where threads cross ; blitz ; yoya

maslow.

Somewhere in the woods, a bird lets out an ear-shattering screech, and Maslow Ibex throws his hands to his ears to muffle it. The vibrations- which come in jagged and frantic waves- are stubborn, though, and soon he finds himself incapable of masking the noise. Once he realises this, he focuses on visualizing his surroundings, and within moments, he is lost in a world of lines and soft clicks. 

It feels like only five minutes ago he had been standing with his back turned to Rider, his partner helping to pack some supplies in his bag before patting his back gently as a send-off. He had been told to scout out possible trails for tomorrow's trek and he had been happy to oblige, his legs aching from sitting around a stale-log fire for one-too-many-days. To this thought, he picks up his pace; while he had been more than happy in his departure, the sun has long begun to settle itself behind the horizon-- he can tell not from a watch or the sky, but from the chirping of crickets in the grass around him-- and he would like to make it back to base before the matches and water and snacks in his backpack become a necessity. 

The dark doesn't affect him, he thinks, for obvious reasons, but the thought of the bitter cold that comes with it is enough to bring an urgency to his clicks and a certain quietness to his steps that he does not possess otherwise. Perhaps it's earlier than he thought-- blindness has its faults when it comes to time-telling, of course- but somewhere around him, hears a twig snap and footsteps pounding the soil like a pair of drunken percussionists. Per normal, the wild life would have died down by now, but he does not seem alarmed. Instead, he places his left hand on his dagger and walks with more care than necessary. After all, he doesn't think it to be anything out of the ordinary and rather, fears being found in the path of an animal he cannot see. 

He breathes in sharply and sighs.