Hoshor Plains made simple intricate paper bloom bleed red

there is no rhyme nor reason to the path that kjalarr takes. though he has spoken brazenly and confidently of reclaiming birthright the northman avoids territories with any lingering familiarity. he maps out the wilds as he once had. he remembers the paths, the shortcuts. but the wilds have changed. not the physical territories themselves per say but territories bear the scent of lingering claim or solidified claim that have not previously. the wilds is in a state of constant flux. nothing stays the same. perhaps for a few years but eventually, as kjalarr has discovered, everything changes.

his path takes him to the hoshor plains; a territory he has very little familiarity with. it is lush from the touch of summer sun and rains. the grass is varying in heights but it's golden color is rich with invigorated life. it brushes against his belly and underside where he enters the territory but as he heads deeper the grass stretches taller yet, rising like a sea of gold to his shoulders. he pauses briefly to draw in the scent of the bison herd that had very recently trampled their way across his path. he does not pursue. even at full strength, even having learned to navigate during a spar and a hunt with a functional eye and a partially functioning eye: he stands no hope of taking down a bison. not on his own. so, he turns blind eye ( ha ) to the trampled grass path and continues forward on his own unaware that his path is fated to intersect with another's.