Qeya River theory of a deadman

Autumn was upon these lands, Nevermore knew it by the dip in the temperatures, in which could previously be considered hot only weeks prior. It was just in it's early stages but soon the swarthy DeMonte knew, the world would reflect the deep colors of Fall as the world around them slowly went into hibernation for the coming winter. He was close to his fourth winter, and though short in the long run of things Nevermore had seen plenty of things. Though he was far from finished with living life to it's fullest. Still, he wore his ordeals, the proof of his survival in the empty eye socket the flesh marred around it. There were other scars, of course, though those remained hidden by ink colored fur. He wasn't pretty to look at, which was perhaps why Adyssa had split from him. He was a war dog, not much of a family man to begin with. To claim he had walked away from her with a devastated heart would have been a lie. She had been as much of a trophy as he'd been when they had first met before the war between the packs had broken out.  He should have stayed out of it, he recounted now as he looked back upon it. Yet, he hadn't. 

Once more Nevermore had taken to wandering. It was what he did best, he supposed. Move like a phantom from place to place so long as nothing formed to tie him there. If he did not get attached then he did not feel guilty for ghosting on. Wanderlust was not something unknown to those of his family, admittedly, and it'd been something he'd had ever since he'd been young enough to venture out upon his own, usually with his sister Poe in tow. He hadn't seen her in years, nor her raven Edgar and wasn't even sure that she still lived.

He shifted where he lay upon the bank of the Qeya River, large body stretching out to catch the sun's rays a bit better. With ears raised in alert listening for any approach he closed his only eye, enjoying his stolen moment of rest.