Stavanger Bay and the rich golden hum

be it twist of fate, the lapse of time drew him from his charge — away from the haunting of his past and responsibility that loomed the young healer to be more ghost than man. yet now he felt a pit growing in his stomach; wide, empty, threatening. it was strange; to go from walking on clouds, to the sinking and ever suffocating loneliness.
mayhaps that was what lured him back here, in these wilds that he never found purpose within; they blossomed with life (and death), gave the optimistic a chance for new. alamar was no fool, but he dreamt sometimes. his dainty gait carried him with ease, tiptoeing through the thick of the bay with his eyes on the ground, attempting to scavenge what was left of herbs before winter settled in.
his shoulders hiked, however, with his stance freezing once he caught whiff of territorial scent. he swore they weren’t here before, when he’d been milling about his own business. now they were, and a quiet shit was hissed under his breath, muffled by what scraps he managed to find and the flow of the nearby stream. his large ears airplaned, someone was drinking — that much he could pick up, and he slunk lower, attempting to be hidden but likely standing out with his lack of cover.

interested in ironclan btw