Dragoncrest Cliffs —i can't help but pull the earth around me,

Seeking Dragoncliff's quietest of refuges, the stag hid and healed. Forgoing (most) closeness in lieu of greater pursuits: rebuilding what he once had been. Skinny as he had been, with ribs pulling taut the skin - no. That was not the true him, and he'll be damned to appear so in front of his - his...comrades.

Two weeks in stasis, Natjuk had plenty of time to ruminate what he's signed on to. He is brana among them. Brand new as declared by Heda, who had been nothing more than the umbra at his heels along the coat. He puffs emphatically, tucking one forearm under him. Had he known her to be Issumatar, he would have conducted himself differently. As imperious and untamed as the very surges crashing against her cliffs. Too bad.

But he was here, unknowable as the sea depths. That needed to change. Ironically, a din travels across the ruggedest of stones to his waiting ear. Someone has come back. From a trip or mission. He knows not, slipping through rangy tree and bosk to answer in presence. He hesitates at her illumination shown through the brush. Worry roots in his chest. Speaking does not come easily to him. Notably sequestered away for a small eternity, he can see him fumbling in his mind's eye. And the awkward silences. Can't forget those!

Shit.