The Heartwood well, you were laid in verse

he'd lost track of @Anselm and @Gideon, his hunting trip leading to a spiral of a crisis in faith and existence ... founded deeply in a sharp stab of agnosticism, and the grief of @Heda's death that he had never truly dealt with. pushing it aside had only allowed it to compound until it broke him. was still breaking him.

would he ever be whole? he couldn't say. but he did know that he could not continue his isolation, clearly unhealthy for him. he was almost a year old, a man grown.


so he pushes himself to his paws and gives his body a firm shake, nosing away the bones from his latest kill: marked with his teeth in a religious ritual that had offered him some clarity. at the very least, it forced him to take a long hard look at himself at his lowest.

he casts one look back at what had become a ritualistic ground for him in a secluded corner of the heartwood and bid it farewell with a low snort, eager to feel the sunshine of the morning upon his face for the first time in ...days, perhaps.

tags for reference but as always feel free to join! <3

The girl might have thought him a ghost, were it not for the burst of sunfire at his nape. A phantom lit by flame; antithesis to herself if ever there was one, seaside shadow that she was. Even now her furs glistened in the sun with salt-crust, glossy and thick from a diet of fish. She watched the boy step from the trees, ocean eyes bright.

He carried the scent of death with him. Her tufted ears fell against her skull. For a moment Seelie thought to turn away, to flee before he ever saw her. Only for a moment. Her curiosity rebounded in a snap, flaring a new; suppose he was a ghost after all? Seelie lifted her chin and chuffed quietly to draw his attention, before she could talk herself out of it entirely. Her eyes never once left the boy.

how many days has it been since he's seen any living creature ... aside from the woodland critters he'd hunted? weeks, maybe. this was of his own design while he allowed the grief of his mother's death to crush him beneath the seawaves within him that it'd taken the shape of. he draws in a dry breath, tongue feeling like sandpaper as his steps come to a slow halt; twinsun gaze taking in the lean shadow in the distance. watching him; her chuff garnering his attention.

what now? inquires his thoughts. it was no surprise that heda's death has changed him ... and not into anything resembling a social butterfly. his time in seclusion had done nothing to breach this armor he's wrapped himself in.

do i know you? is what ezra settles for, voice rough from disuse; knowing full well that he doesn't know her. but he'd felt the pull to say something — anything — so he wasn't staring at her like an uncouth beast with no manners.