Sun Mote Copse a quiet resolve

The late hour gave way to an invigorating chill, the copse still save for the trill of crickets in the long grass. Their songs silenced as he progressed, only to start again in the path he forged. The hinterlands were shedding their summery sights, the warmer days of summer now a fond memory; the nights foretold of the winter to come. It would not have surprised Dirge any if a frost found its way onto the branches by daybreak. It was certainly cold enough now, he thought.

Imbued with a restlessness that would not relent, he had continued his travels. The cover of darkness did not deter him from exploring these unknown depths, nor did they usher him along for safer climes. If there were any hidden treasures to be found here, he did not look for them. What he did find held little interest; a dropping of some game here, the remnants of a cache there and so on. He had not been in want of food, whether by some merciful god or simply blind luck he had either caught or scavenged enough to satisfy.

The cool air brought a stillness to his surroundings as he slipped beneath bands of moonlight, the cricket song now an ambient din behind him as he left the tall grass for the wilderness beyond. He lingered at the edge of the copse in thought, drawing in the expanse that lied ahead. These deliberations had become more pronounced now that he was on his own and perhaps rightfully so. Without two other heads to knock against his own, he found the lack of input to be most unsettling. There had always been someone, if to be there for nothing else than to affirm his decision.

If such a thing troubled him more, it would have shown in the lines of his face.

Instead, his actions spoke for him, and of the mounting restlessness that wore into him—he sighed.

Nothing stirred on the winds out here, as though the woodland and the countryside were void of travel. He knew these things to be lies, for the call of kin and kin-like still carried, even out here. His curiosity had not whet itself enough to draw close to them and so, he had turned northward from them. If memory had served him well—of which he had no reason to doubt—then the ocean still lied to the north. The days where sea salt had been a tease on the wind still intrigued him. It still seemed worth the venture, even now when he debated the best course of action.