Otter Creek a burning coal touching the prophet's lips

The land grows intensely familiar the deeper he delves into it. Nearly every turn he takes, every bush he glances at, is enough to invoke some wisp of a memory in his mind. There were many, to his chagrin, despite the fact that he hadn't ventured here in a while. 

He figured that the best place to find the creature was to start home. See if anyone still resided within the borders of his birthplace, then catch a trail from there. That had remained a constant in his life, the bedrock of his understanding of the Wilds, to know that at least someone related to him was at Blackfeather Woods. 

(he was in for a shock, but let's get to that later) 

He followed Otter Creek to where it fed into the Woods, the stone's receptacle still held firmly in his jaws. The fur had not been cured and treated, so it was sopping wet and growing disgusting. He'd have to replace it soon. He glanced at the otter prints in the muddy banks. Perhaps otter skin this time? 

He looks up from the bank. It was initially a casual gesture, to keep aware of his surroundings, but it changes when he sees the blue-gray figure across from him, on the side of the creek near the Spire. Drogon, he speaks an ancient word through gritted teeth. He knows this face, unlike the others he had seen since he had first broken away from his home.