Sawtooth Spire fernweh

quite far from where he's intended to settle the remnants of courtfall, melkor leads them south again, to the west. when the collective stops to rest, melkor scouts ahead. he is tired, travel weary and yet he keeps pushing on. he should rest too, but sleep brings him no peace. only when it is dark and dreamless; most nights however, it is little more than nightmares.

the rains have washed some of the snow away but it still layers heavy and deep in areas. though the tundrian himself is build to weather such he must remind himself that not everyone else is; nevertheless he trudges a path figuring when they are ready the others could follow in it.

steps cease only when a familiar figure comes into view up ahead. though the diasporan's name lingers on his tongue, he offers a low chuff to announce his presence instead — in the case that mahler hadn't already seen him, that is.