Barrow Fields i'm still alive

It had come to his attention that this land was indeed vast. Rhona had warned him - perhaps not in such a tone, but now he understood what she meant - and while the sights he saw in his travel were keenly different from all that he'd known, they were not always inherently good things. There were scents here that the man had never encountered; when he found a patch of soil marked by a raccoon's feces, a creature he had never encountered, he found the scent of it foul but chose to carry it with him. He bowed and rolled in the patch, and then later found some freshly budding flowers (of which he had also never seen before) to add to his collection. Each time something new presented itself Pendragon would investigate, or roll, or taste, until he was so overwhelmed by all the new and all the different that he was desensitized to it.

He also hoped - likely in vain - that he now wore upon him all that the land's residents wore; that he would smell like them. The man did not wish to answer any questions about the Vale to any outsider, and to keep them safe he would continue the self-imposed rituals. If the druids could see him now! A warrior, wearing the scents of flowers and fauna upon himself! They would laugh and sing, derive poetry from the tale of his survival — perhaps even feast in his name, for he was foolish and yearning for home, but it would be a good story.

In his wandering he did not reunite with Rhona as he'd anticipated, and he felt a fresh wave of loss about this. It was not so bad to be alone, he told himself. I will find her again, and we will share tales of this new land, and so he tried to ease the terror felt deep inside his soul. Pendragon did find something strange, though. As he was pushing thoughts of Rhona from his mind and seeking a new path, the scent of death hung in the air the way the brine had stung his nose; there was a bloody, fetid, delicious scent that reminded him of his own hunger.

And as he traipsed, he spied the forgotten carcass. Upon his swift approach and initial inspection, the man found that the body had been picked clean. It was small — some kind of hare? He chose to lick at the remains, pick up a clump of the fur and toss it aside, and found it still a touch warm. That could only mean someone was here. Perhaps it was Rhona? The man could not tell by scent because of his own foolishness — he could only smell the many layers of himself. But he did look around, frantic at first, eager, and saw a silhouette dashing in the distance.

Hello? he bellowed, striding over the animal remains as he picked up his own loping pace. His body was still tender from his arrival, but Pendragon would not slow until he discovered the wolf. If it were Rhona, he would be pleased. If it were anyone else — it was the perfect time to glean some understanding, for a native would have answers.