Haunted Wood well you know november has come

The dim, hazy woods are not welcoming, but he's become used to the sense of unease. He wears it like a second skin now, and if the fog drifting between the gnarled oak trees sets him on edge a little more then it's just another drop in the pond. He tries not to think on it too long; soon the forest will fade into the background of a much longer journey, as all the places before it have. There's somewhere he needs to be — he just doesn't know where.
His journey is slower than he'd like; there's a limp to his gait, and he still bears almost-healed wounds across his body, hidden by thick, disheveled golden fur. In his dreams, sometimes, he remembers receiving them. He doesn't remember why. Something in the air almost reminds him of the reason. He pauses, lifts his nose, and closes his eyes. The wind is soft, but it whispers in a thousand voices, achingly familiar and alien at the same time — it's his name. He remembers his name.
Cortland. Cortland. Cortland.