Bitterroot Valley porphyria

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in a sort of sleep-walking, vague, subconcious way he drifted from point to point, his strides irregular, his gait more of a stumble, and wove between the shrubs that dotted the landscape. above sat the burning sun, a voluptuous array of clouds that drifted aimlessly — similar to the wolf-shaped thing that moved upon the earth. it was midday. it was not the time for his family to be roaming, and so he roamed for them — scouring the desolate valley for any place they could take shelter, a route to traverse through the night, or even a creature to bring back with him so that they may feast. far-off upon the horizon stood an imposing monument, an immense tooth standing out from the flatland. the man shifted his aim and began to move west rather than north, towards the clean scent of water, deciding to slake his own thirst before attending to the needs of his masters.
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