Moonspear the notes of a strained refrain

He had made his way down by the borders where coniferous forest blended in with that of the old-growth. It was here where the ferns were bountiful, springing up still from towering trees that knew more history than he ever would. Here, where the border was wide and the terrain varied with rises and gullies, and generally where things were quiet. In that pocket nestled up against the rise of stone to the jagged peaks that divided one region from another, the world was a comforting place. It reminded him of times of the home he had grown up in; had there been some stunning water feature to the face of the monolith risen aside him, it could have passed for it.

The early morning was not as chilly as it had been, though in the higher climes of Moonspear frost had swiftly decorated all it could grasp and hold to. It was replaced by a low rolling fog in the lowland, the kind of element that had he been away from the crag would have set him on edge. Perhaps it would have here too once, but he had come to know the territory intimately and he did not wonder as to where he was or what could lie out there. He knew—in this case, it was the elk herd that he had tracked that loitered not far from their claim.

The southern valley just beyond their claim was not their usual fare for hunting grounds, but it was gentle enough to traverse and the breadth of their claim skirted along its edges in wild, varying pockets. Dirge brought himself to halt along such an edge to mark it once more, establishing that they were still very much here and very much aware, but often this stretch of land was devoid of lunatics or wayfarers both.

And it was the place that he had asked @Atlas to meet him, so that they might scout it together.