Hoshor Plains made simple intricate paper bloom bleed red

kjalarr's path soon intersects with another's once more. this time it is canis lupus. they almost brush but it does not come as strictly any sort of surprise to kjalarr. the golden grass sea is tall where they roam through it and it is easy to hide within. she shifts away and kjalarr's head swings in her direction. his partially blind eye — frosted and milky with the 'curse' of nifelheim — is particularly useless in the tall, shivering grasses. there is a permanent writhing shadow that melds and swallows all the shadows together so that they are near indecipherable. so his focus shifts to his good eye, sharpened from the extra burden it carries.

she apologizes and diverts her eyes. the scars upon his muzzle are the oldest and kjalarr is used to the staring. he has quite an impressive collection of them and each bears their own unique tale of suffering. and survival. whether she apologizes for staring or because they almost bumped into one another kjalarr isn't sure. it doesn't matter. he isn't particularly offended by either. "no need," he brushes off her apology. he does not take his eyes off of her, but his ears swivel, keen and alert. "i was not paying much attention either." the warborn admits, not in a self-depreciating way simply in a manner of blunt honesty. there had once been a desire to be a ranger but times have changed and kjalarr's passion for travel wanes with each passing year. he has travelled, flitting from throne to throne over the past three years. the conqueror is travel weary and yet, still, he continues to wander. he has little choice. there is much work to be done before he can truly settle in the way he desires to.