Hideaway Strath he walks the field at night

as he had every time he's left a pack previously, always disappearing without a word he of many names and masks picks a new one from his growing collection. he collects them like dragons collect gold and thinks for how stagnant he'd allowed his life to become during his stay in moonspear that settling down isn't for him. this time, however, he spent time in the vast beyond outside of teekon wilds. not long. the draw to the teekon wilds is like trying to fight a riptide to the wanna-be warlord. he can resist, he can stay afloat but he won't win; evidenced by the moment as he makes his way through the abandoned hideaway strath. dream lotte had been right, of course. any signs of teaghlaigh's existence here was long gone. it's a ghost town which is fine, wintersbane tells himself. hopefully, it means he can restore his strength from his journey in uninterrupted peace. he's tired and travel weary and makes the mental note that this territory is both bizarrely familiar and foreign to him all at once. he doesn't remember it well enough to navigate with confidence: the last time he stepped foot here had been as a cub, after all. it felt like so long ago. lifetimes.

his steps slow as he recognizes the white flowers that grow in small bunches all over a settled spot at the strath's heart and his throat constricts. hemlock. he doesn't know for sure but he suspect he's found his mother's grave. he's not one to put much stock in dreams or anything outside of what he deems as "real" but there's a deep ache in his bones as he stares at the ground and cannot help but think the placement of hemlock is too precise to have occurred naturally. he stares at it before his attention shifts, glacial gaze searching the landscape around him. he has to think of food, water and shelter if he plans to linger here to recoup from the journey for any measure of time; but he lingers at lotte's grave for a few minutes longer.