Lost Creek Hollow i'm floating down a river / oars freed from their holes long ago

Sunny, bright, and altogether dry: a fine day for travelling, and Tad wasted no precious time. When first setting out, he'd charted through streams and snowy passes to lose his scent, and he had felt he couldn't go a step without glancing back to search for watchful eyes and the coddle he was sure would follow. But morning by morning, he found he was met with nothingness, and no one but himself, the open road and the promise of a new start. Now a week in, and he had grown certain that none of his kin had followed after him. For once in his life, the Blackthorn was free - completely. His name meant nothing here - his slate, wiped blank. He was his, and his alone, to present, to define, and to establish to be everything he knew he was and could be, and that his family refused to see.

This spring day, the youngblood found himself in high spirits (for himself, anyway) and he set out through the cathedral of a forest keen to exploit the riches he could find. Beyond him, streams tumbled and swelled, and greater water roared a further distance away, promising fish - but no, he was done with splashing around. He focused on the mossy ground underpaw, keen to find something of interest amongst the stale and fading scents - and found a thread of something new, foreign, and leading through the trees - and he followed, keenly aware he hadn't seen another face in days -

- not that he needed to.