# Acheronian [WIP]

Author: kaksilimni
Tags: Cervine, Deer, Male, Mammal, Post-Apocalyptic, Realistic, Red deer, apocalypse, survival, wasteland

But of course a deer is reluctant to act.

The idle chirring of unseen insects, likely seasonal cicadas of some variant,  
hummed droningly against a seemingly innocuous monotonously yellow and green  
backdrop.&nbsp; Unshaken, or more appropriately, wholly unaware, of the bleak  
circumstances the world around them finds themselves in, spared the desperation  
of a ruined existence.  
  
A stretch of tall grass near the road wavered slightly, catching a mild  
updraught of the stale breeze. They wobbled lazily, almost responding in turn to  
the heat beating down from the unrelenting sun above.  
  
Again, movement in the grass, but this time the wind was still.&nbsp; The motion was  
subtle; careful, even.&nbsp; The faint, obscured outline weaved through the reedy  
veil, taking slow and calculated steps forward.&nbsp; Mindful, though, to not  
trespass too closely near the edge, where the concealment would give way.  
  
A small sound abruptly ensued; a short and discreet waft from the hidden figure:  
a sneeze of all things sounded out of the otherwise unassuming environs.  
  
"Fucking dammit," an irritated voice sounded out.&nbsp; The volume was mellow, spoken  
under his own voice, but possibly audible to anyone nearby.  
  
But there was no one.  
  
The deer shook his head, annoyed at the failings of his own body.&nbsp; Allergic to  
grass?&nbsp; A pettier thing couldn't be imagined.&nbsp; He shook his head, bringing with  
it the grace in shame of the unseemly large antlers he bore upon his visage  
along with it.&nbsp; Those things were quite a sight, in different circumstances, but  
encumbering in a situation like this.  
  
There were no threats;&nbsp; the ever so cautious creature was safe, for now.&nbsp; What  
an untimely gratification, thinking that the next few precious moments could be  
savoured as the opposite of a guaranteed threat.  
  
He grunted self-consciously to himself, the burden of both being present in this  
harrowing scenario along with the obnoxious chafe of the the unwieldy rucksack  
upon his back doubling up on him.&nbsp; The deer had never been one of great physical  
endurance, much to his dismay.  
  
Not to let the small trifles of life bog him down, he shook his head derisively,  
bringing forth the sway of his elegant, yet sombre outline.&nbsp; "Focus," he thought  
to himself, making an attempt to fulfil some sense of determination.&nbsp; This was  
despite the fact there was an open wound upon the bridge of his snout, provoking  
a mild soreness throughout his being.  
  
"The flesh is weak," the deer resounded.&nbsp; "The flesh is weak."&nbsp; Numerous pangs  
of agony burned his core, whether the source physical or mental.&nbsp; These setbacks  
were a contrivance, objects of contempt.&nbsp; It was clear he was angrier than hell  
at his excuse for a physique, a rage that was converted into resolve through  
sheer disbelief at this point.  
  
Despite the introspection, the setting remained intact.&nbsp; The intent was  
similarly clear:&nbsp; open the boot of the car, check for resources.&nbsp; How could  
anything be simpler?  
  
A bead of sweat ran down the deer's forehead, hanging for a brief moment along  
the edge of his chin.  
  
"Why am I afraid?"  
  
The gnawing sense of disgust flowed shortly through his aching frame. "But of  
course a deer is reluctant to act," his thoughts coursed aggressively.  
"Fucking rubbish."  
  
He moved almost in sync with an internal pulse, ignoring the impulses from his  
unfettered, yet dense feral mind.&nbsp; It was an object of perpetual torture,  
constantly fighting off the impetuous narrative the darkest reaches of his  
brain would populate without permission.  
  
Checking left, right, and left again, the deer swiftly positioned himself behind  
a nearby vehicle.&nbsp; Long legs gave way to long, quiet strides--one after another  
until their destination had been reached.&nbsp; It was an older machine that had  
obviously seen better days (the vehicle, that is), one that happened to have a  
bumper sticker reading "Carbon Tax Me," a statement meant for a distant era.  
The car itself hadn't aged well, but had somehow avoided being vandalised as of  
yet.  
  
He sighed deeply, his thin chest rising and falling in a despondent, erratic  
rhythm.&nbsp; What had the world been so pointlessly occupied with to generate such a  
stupid remark?&nbsp; The deer would never fully know, honestly, and the less time he  
spent worrying about it, the better.  
  
A quick flick of the wrist produced a rugged knife from his hip, deliberately  
poised to be dispensed at a moment's notice.&nbsp; Another jerk of the neck side to  
side, just in case, before he began his entry into the car's trunk.&nbsp; As he  
nimbly fumbled with wedging the blade between the metallic seam, his thoughts  
began wandering again.  
  
An indiscriminately random thought crossed his mind, stroking his already  
persistent anxiety.&nbsp; "The fuck?"&nbsp; The deer was possibly getting more exhausted  
than he was allowing himself to admit.&nbsp; "Focus."  
  
Blurring began to fill his peripheral vision, accompanied by a swelling ringing  
that began washing into his usually acute hearing.&nbsp; His mismatched eyes slightly  
defocused, an opaque glaze invading the scene in front of him.  
  
"Shit. Shit, shit shit." Whatever this was had been happening recently, often at  
the worst possible time.  
  
As fast at it had begun, the episodic symptoms ceased.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/JewlxXmO