Summer is coming. It might not be there yet, but its coming. Its in the ground; its in the grass, now green and spongey underfoot; its in the colour of night, as the cold blackness of winter mellows to the deep blue of warmer nights. The street lighting is the same though: stark and tinged with yellow, thick with shadows.
Aeneas likes the shadows. They enable him to slip in and out of places easily. He also like the refreshing scent of cut grass, still lingering, that hangs over the dog park. Council workers did their sweep today and while the aroma is all but gone, those with attuned senses can still detect the faint odour. Maybe that is why he is alerting the world to his presence as he arrives, sniffing loudly.
Its night and the dog park is empty. Street lights burn like a rank of sentinels, casting sharp branches of light across the park that render the place mysterious and otherworldly. When the rangy hill billy with his low cap, flannelette and slack jaw quietly appears, the park develops a sudden edge of threat. It doesn't help that he pads to the middle of the park - the middle of Tur - and squats, hands idly playing with the grass clippings left behind from the days maintenance.
Head cocked to one side, the Irraka waits to see if any other wolves still mark the ground as Sacred.
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