Doewater Creek
There was something about the crunch of the snow beneath his boot that he found distasteful. It wasn’t inherently a bad sound, of course, the soft crunch from heel to toe as your foot sank down into the softened ground. It could have been the mud he knew was beneath the slurry, mucking up the sole of his boot, tracking him through his path as he moved beneath the wavering loose stretch of police tape that had been left to block the path. It shouldn’t have bothered him, it wasn’t the first time he’d walked through the snow, but he supposed it could be a number of things. Then again, if you asked anyone who knew him it was far more likely to be simply because Nikoli Viscardi found something to grump about at all times.
