Dawnlark Plains three-day weekend

Ovaltine was not sure if his surname had been chosen because they knew he would be a drifter or if he had simply become a drifter because of his surname. What did it matter, anyway? His feet had taken to wandering since the death of his father and subsequent disbanding of Green Skeleton Ridge. He could not count the days from then until the present, nor did he intend to. Instead, he simply kept walking, chatting up the locals when they would have him, and subsisting on scavenged carrion or the occasional shared kill. (The latter was much harder to come by.) The winters were difficult, and Oval often lost the majority of his weight during the colder months, but somehow he had made it out alive twice. He intended to do it again and again until the world had had enough of his antics.

As the sun began to beat down on the lush land below, Ovaltine thought it best to keep moving. (Spoiler alert: Ovaltine always thinks it's a good idea to keep moving.) He rose from his curled position on the hard earth, pushed up from where gravity pulled, and stretched. First, his front legs. Then, his hind legs. Finally, his neck and tail. The large male let out a long, drawn-out yawn, shook his coat, and trotted south with no real purpose in mind. Sooner or later, he always ran into somebody.