Blackfeather Woods when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

grime-seeped claws grasped at the earth at the drum of heavy footfalls; from a closing distance, a visibly exhausted frame prowled towards the borderline. having lost a significant amount of weight and vigour during his travels, the titan of a man who once stood above others and unearthed a trembling fear from those caught dead in his warpath -- was reduced to a nearly unrecognizable state. it would take dear time to return his physical appearance to what once was, if he could manage to do so at all. his ribs now showed through a formerly thick coat, battered and worn as evidence of months of rouge activity. returning to rusalka seemed like a distant thought, though it was the home he could not find elsewhere, it was the woman adorned with constellations who guided his every move. when he was not with her, he thought of her. when the nights became cold and the hunt ran scarce, he thought of the whelps nestled within her and if they had ever come to be. the children born from grezig likely did not need nor desire his presence, and so he (selfishly) did not carry any intent to seek them out.

calloused paws failed beneath him and he stumbled, resigning to the hard ground only meters away from where the faint scent of a past gone by lied like a silent grave. she was here, he knew, for his nose had never once betrayed him. but the elements had worn him to the bone and he could venture no further. there, on the outskirts of a temple he once forsook, he closed his eyes.