Hoshor Plains god is a city overflowing with fists

vague vague whats a timeline

how easy it is to slip into old habits, donning his melancholic aura like a cloak as he flees his emotions at the vale. only last time it hadn't been his fault at all and now it's all on him, the failed leader. the great shirker. he's not equipped for any of this! he's not, but. 

but.

outside of the vale he can breathe a little easier. he misses the sweep, close enough to tindome that he could disappear into it without feeling as if he's abandoned the pack. the mountain range is bigger, more traitorous. (he thinks bitterly: they don't really need him though, do they.)

delight's pace slows as he realises abruptly he's not alone, the creeping sorrow of his thoughts abruptly, momentarily vanished. the bison he'd been ignoring (or rather, hadn't particularly noticed). the woman stalking them, though... for a moment the morwinyon thinks about turning back to tindome, not wanting to be in company. but then again, it reminds him of the sweep and his chance encounters, and so he lowers himself slightly and creeps closer. "you can't take one down on your own, y'know," delight says skeptically by way of greeting, his gaze flicking back over to the unruffled herd animals.