It isn't often Emýr find himself without the shadow of Erys. The gaunt man who refused to leave his side—or rather the damned and fragile unspoken promise of protection. A curse more than a blessing, as his companion has little to offer other than a constant headache. It seems around every bend he's getting himself into trouble he cannot use that charm-speak of his to weasel out of. 

The early morning is quiet, frigid. Bathed in the glow of the rising sun's gentle rays, forging a sense of false security. Of peace, should the Crownore ever be able to grasp such a thing. Snow crunches beneath heavy but sure steps. A man so volatile now silence, but no less stormy. Always stewing, or at least his features were always taut with a deep thoughtfulness. 

He isn't quite sure what his direction is, anymore...and the realization that he might have never known is threatening to crush him. He has his mother—thank the gods—and company, albeit sour...but his purpose is unknown. Perhaps it is what he's damned for, carrying the blood of a man turned monster. 

Perhaps this is his fate. Endless unknowing, endless doubt. 

A hunt might soothe his mind—or perhaps company that didn't make him wish to tear free of his own skin. Either way, he keeps moving, because he could not afford to let himself bend.