Seaside Moors in sweet solitude of mind

night settles over the moors; frosty and tangy with salt. wintersbane’s been here a small handful of days now and trying to settle in. like each place he’s called home over the years of his existence it will, too, take some getting used to. he is not entirely free of the grating grit of sand where beach gives way to shrubbery and solid earth; persistently it clings to the green ‘round it like a parasite. perhaps, in time, he would grow to love it. or, at the very least, tolerate it. he has chosen this place; thwarting his own plans like some masochistic villain who had it out for himself. he knows what he wants and holds onto the blossoming hope that he might find it here …where he least expects to.

perhaps, he holds onto the hope, that even the damned can find redemption.

he errantly follows the border markers, pacing along them — pausing here and there to add his own scent to them. he is methodical about it but it allows himself to both memorize the layout of the land while being idly attentive.