Deepwood Weald in the ruins where i miss aching for a god

hi, i'm tipsy. so if this doesn't make sense or is super rambling i'm really sorry, lol. @Grezig

dysphoria has been a constant companion of tyr in the weeks that follow his decision to part with mount taygetos. most wolves leave their birth pack — his journey is no different from countless others' — and he's made his choice to leave behind the seeds of what he's sewn as taxiarhos.

he's chosen and now he must live with it.

still, the young commander was trained and has grown with the deep instilled belief that each individual must give for the good of the whole. loneliness settles like a chill in the marrow of his bones; aching. he has never in his life been alone like this. even in the womb he's shared space with siblings. when he was old enough taken from his mother and tossed in the communal den with the other male hoplites.

he craves social order and hierarchical structure.

he needs it.

he was never trained to be a soldier of fortune. a lone spartan can do a lot of damage; trained to the peak of efficiency yes... but he worked better with purpose.

his mood sours as he shrugs into the weald, ducking beneath a rouge spindly limb that reaches for him from an equally as spindly sapling. a spared glimpse skyward tells him that one day the sapling will join the others where their branches tangle together to offer protection from the worst of the weather. the red and green ferns offer some insulation against the cold of the winter as it comfortably sets into the wilds.

he pushes forward, fringes of the ferns brushing against his legs and underbelly where they reached tall enough — some trampling under foot — rustling as he sets to a mission. the only mission he's had since setting out on this voyage: food. water. shelter.

survival.