Grouse Thicket mais oui on se connait bien

Though the thicket was wrought with life, the Nord had found it difficult to pass through without feeling the tug of a thorn against his skin or the whip of a branch that had been strung too far back. His breathing had been labored by the time he had settled into the cut out of brush that had formed a natural den. Vines had grown and wrapped themselves along the outsides of the foliage, leaving a wild tangle before the prized seclusion. During the night, the thicket had been alive with the sounds of birds and smaller animals scurrying about. Kodlak had slept well enough through it, exhausted from his travels.
 
It was the first early morning light that pulled him from the lichen that housed him. The broad stretch of his shoulders had caught against some of the climbing plant and tangled there. Against the dusty and pale browns of his pelt, the Nord appeared to have been sent by the gods of the chaparral to watch over their creation. Only when he had cast away the remainder of his sleep with a wide-mouthed yawn did the fierce Wuuthrad see the dark woman. Rolling tropical waves in his eyes lingered on her pitch-colored frame for a moment before he chuffed to sound his presence.