Bramblepoint my body veined in soot

The empyrean druid grows bolder still. Mato can scarcely help himself. He tastes liberty unlike any he has known before, he hears the galvanic call of the Wilds; a siren’s beckon he heeds. To resist is near impossible. Thus, he does not resist. He does not intend to rebel he assures himself as he slips out of the Fen’s borders under the shadow cover of night though his pelage — as lovely and silver as moonbeams and stardust (darkened in few places by the velveteen dusk — does not offer him adequate camouflage. He does not intend to sneak though he does not wish to draw attention upon himself. It does not fail to fall in his consideration that if a parent awakens and finds him missing (or a sibling tells upon him) that he will (likely) be punished; but he is near six months of age, nearly looks like a full grown adult (from afar he would certainly seem that way) and his wonder is not a thing to be stifled nor easily imprisoned.

The tension in his shoulders does not loosen until he reaches Bramblepoint. He moves easily into the woodlands - a congregation of alders, cottonwoods, apple and cherry trees. He pauses sniff at a blackberry bush before he plucks a few from it and chews them, savoring the tart juice as his teeth break the skin of the fruit. It is not meat, certainly no staple diet for a wolf (let alone a growing boy!) but the druid relishes in the delicacy. The predaceous (for he is a beast still, druid or not) side of him acknowledges that Bramblepoint is a haven for herbivores and that it would make excellent hunting grounds. For now, Mato contents himself with exploration of it and not how he might be able to exploit the fruits of the earth’s labor into an advantage for he and his ilk.