Deepwood Weald even the heather's crimson red

The boy could have very well lay there for the remainder of his life were it not for the stranger, drawn in by the sound of his fall (and consequent lack of movement thereafter). The soft rumble of a musing voice reached him, and Redshank's large ears perked as he looked up in the direction the sound came from, not bothering to move his head quite yet. He was in a state of apathy, uncaring as to whether this stranger was the dastardly or helpful sort. If he saw fit to put an end to his miserable life, so be it.

Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it — the man seemed to lean on the more helpful side. At least for the moment. With effort, the Cairn shifted in an attempt to regard his company who blended in well with the earthy colours of the forest. He was large, with a pair of gleaming golden eyes that stood out from the dark, muted palette surrounding them. "I guess," Redshank responded before mumbling in the next quiet breath, "fuckin' trees." The man spoke as if he lived here. He waited for a moment before further adding, "that a hint tellin' me to get off y'lawn?"