Dragoncrest Cliffs The Moon Calls To Me

Lost, alone, confined to The Bracken Woods for far too long. Hemlocke was sure of himself that his small group was not returning, at least not anytime soon. Had they been injured, killed, anywhere near, by now after wandering this place for months on his own he was sure he would have found them. He was almost afraid to leave the large, spiny forest. Almost afraid to meet someone new. But there was a world out there, a whole world which he could live. Was he worthy even, to live? 

Be it by the visit of Chai or Hemlocke's own sudden determination, a revolution happened. Though he cried as he did so, he would stalk out from the large woodland by the cloak of darkness and out into the stretch of open tundra. The night, his forever only constant partner, would accompany him as he moved into seemingly endless open, exposed land for the first time in months. 

He aimlessly wandered south-west from his home which was at the very most corner of this world. In the open landscape, he was driven towards the salted smell on the breeze of sea. He had not seen an ocean in such a long time. He had not visited the ocean often, funny for having been born on a peninsula. It was too harsh, too open and yet held beauty in its danger. He wished to see it again, if only for a little while. 

The black wolf strode, clinging to the shadows, moving within them. Though here in the open he felt vulnerable, uncomfortable. Though his body was hunched, long legs of a tall man prevented him from obtaining full cover even in the cloak of darkness. It began to gently rain and his bloodied eyes squinted to it in protest. When he neared the rocks and trees which lined the cliffside, he fluttered towards them as though they may offer him some sort of protection from far more then the rain. 

Then, as he reaches the safety of the trees he hears scurrying over the rocks, scraping, scrambling and he comes lingering near just quickly enough to see the large wolf (wolf??) skitter back to his footing and curse at his own mistaken judgement. The black hound could not help but stare (as ever) at the man, just as tall as he yet easily two times his girth. Hemlocke hunches back behind the trees, red night-visoned eyes still seeking.