Whitefish River oathkeeper

It was easy enough to avoid the coast, even if the sea called to him in the form of gull song. The mineral rich taste of the air was not the siren song it once had been; nor was the sight of black waves as enticing.

He drifted.

This black shadow, once swaggering with a king's guise, now weighed down by a grim aura. The hitch in the man's step was the only difference as he prowled along - one old injury of many, the kind that acted up when the weather turned sour. The sky was clear now; a pale egg blue unmarred by clouds, warm summer air pressing in on all sides. In the distance (over the sea where he refused to look) were bands of darkness, encroaching. That ache in his hip would grow as the storm gathered, slowing him, hindering if he let it. The wanderer felt a particularly sharp twang of electric pain deep down in the bone, and grimaced - but he persisted all the same.

There was nothing else he could do, and nowhere to go. Eventually a river transected his path; the shadow perused the area with a sweep of his dulled vision, and opted for a direction. It would not take long before the scents of other wolves filled his senses. The warrior did not seem bothered by them - if anything, it was almost like he sought them out on purpose. Perhaps the wanderer had finally reached his limit and now required solace, versus solitude.