Verdant Basin ≡ Some Bridges Don't Burn

It had been years. A year to run. A year to think. A year to grow. He entered this place thinking that all had been resolved. Time healed all wounds. Wrong. When the long-forgotten smell of the wilds began to fill his nose; the memories danced before him as apparitions. Perhaps, in his solitude, he had gone mildly insane.

Truthfully, this wasn't the case. He was still regretful of the decision he made to leave and of the promises he had failed to keep. It would also be true to say that he was hopeful of the future. All roads seemed to lead back here.

Scents of wolves danced together at various stops. Some strong, some only but lingering; enough so that he remained avidly aware of his surroundings.

Where once he was on the heavier side--now there seemed to an apparent thinness to him. His thick grey coat allowing for his ribs to just barely be seen. It came with the fact he had lived the past years as nothing short of a monk. Silent. Alone. This made good food hard to find. Surviving off of the occasional luck-of-the-draw for small prey and the remains of larger prey left behind by God-only-knows-what.

  For now, he found refuge at the side of a pond. If there were nothing to eat, then there would be something to drink. Casually he drew to the edge of the waters and stood to look at his reflection before he indulged. There was a maturity to him now.