Jade Fern Grove a lion born of things you cannot be

The coverage that the morning's clouds offered brought with it a relief upon Jorunn's monochromacy though he was so used to now that the impairment of day did not bother him as badly as it once had. He still couldn't see as well as someone that could see in colors but it was apart of him and he had adapted to it because he had no other choice. He liked nighttime the best because it was the time in which he could see without having to squint several times until he was able to discern gray-scale shapes that eventually would come to form faces or objects. Night was when Scimitar and Bazi's family slept, however, and he didn't relish in the idea of sneaking out — as he once would have done without a bat of an eyelash in hesitation previously. He didn't want Bazi to give him to the bear. The thought of coming face to face with another bear was enough to send Jorunn into a flashback that he didn't want to relive. It was bad enough he dreamed about it — and his dreams were vivid; the only thing that he could see what he didn't know to be colors in (or some faint semblance of them anyway). There was always one wolf that frequented it: tall, large, burly, silver like him but he was missing an eye and was horrendously scarred on the side of his head. The empty eye socket burned an eternal flame. He called himself Valthognir the “slain reciever”. He didn't talk much but Jorunn got the deep impression that he was important, nevertheless. There were others, too, but it was this Valthognir that frequented Jorunn's dreams the most.

He blinked slowly, glimpsing left and right as if he were momentarily disoriented though he was a tiny bit confused as to why he'd ceased his (careful) exploration of Jade Fern Grove. So caught up in his thoughts he must have subconsciously stopped walking as to avoid slamming into a tree. His brow furrowed for a few moments before he continued forth, shrugging past ferns and expertly sliding around the trunk of one of the thin, tall trees that inhabited this place. The crickets didn't seem to ever cease their song, but Jorunn didn't mind it. It wasn't the lulling roar of the ocean in the distance — a lullaby he would likely never hear again — but it served the purpose, nevertheless. Jorunn was an expert at adapting to abrupt and hard changes at this point and adapting lullaby-akin sounds was easier then anything else, by and far.