Maelstrom was running.
He didn't know why he ran anymore. Back when he first made his escape, he was always running, his heart pounding and strained in his chest, his breath heaving in a harsh guttering sound. His limbs were always burning then, aching for him to relent, but his fear had been stronger. Now that he'd been free for some time, there was no need to run, and yet he found himself doing so anyways. His feet, now had and calloused against rocks and branches, made a soft patter against the ground as he shot through the plain in his accustomed lope. He was used to it now, able to control his breath and regulate his pace. He could probably carry on for another hour or so like this. The wind was his friend when he ran, combing gentle fingers through his hair and dragging at him playfully. He let out a low peal of laughter and, on a whim, spread his arms to catch the air, letting it drag him up and up and up.
Flying didn't feel at all like he'd imagined at first, watching the birds with their wings. He felt more like a kite, his whole body catching some wayward breeze, having only to think himself light to be carried away. He could, of course, control where he was going if only he directed the wind, but it was much more fun to be tossed around. If he wanted to just go, he would have run. He was used enough to it by now.
It was a good day for him, all in all. He was well fed on a dump raid, and food, once swallowed, was more or less the same no matter the origin. He was far enough away from the towns that he could do whatever he liked without the fear of being seen. The winds over the plain were deliciously strong, having miles and miles of empty air in which to gather momentum, and there was soft grass to lie in when he was tired. For him, no more was necessary.