Fairspell Meadow you could set fire

Was it the way of the warrior to give in to the first temptation that crossed ones path? He didn't know. This had never been a lesson taught to him; all he had been told were stories of battle, of valor, of bloodshed and righteousness. This seemed like giving up, and giving in. Letting someone else take control of whatever constituted life for the poor boy. Maybe it would be better for him to concede and follow her — this stranger, this savior — but something in Crescent was resistant.

He was nervous, sure. Afraid even. It took some concentration to hide the shivering of his withers and to force his curved tail from out beneath his body, but he tried to relax, or feigned a sense of calm that made the moment bearable. Going with this stranger meant food and shelter, but a loss of atonomy. How long would he be required to stay? He could not take from her family and not be expected to owe a debt — that's always how the stories went. A brave knight rescues a damsel, falls in love, stays by her side. A mercenary is offered all that he requires for survival, and becomes endentured to those that aided him. There were many avenues to this scenario that Crescent was leery of.

Hungry, he finally murmurs, the word a mere exhalation as he gives in, letting the defeat roll across his shoulders the way Atlas of the myths sagged beneath the weight of the world. He did not say anything else — but the boy did shift through the grass towards her, extending his nose to sniff at her plush fur; then as he recoiled, avoiding actual contact, the boy raised his head above the reeds and looked around, almost like a meerkat. Where..?

Where is home?