Redhawk Caldera i'm out looking for action

because of injury plot timeline set before this. ensuing chaos in three, two, one ...

after the early vestiges of morning and the rise of the sun chase away the last of the webbing abyss of night, tvarog heads southeast of the altar. the territory offered little in the way of substance and while charming and ethereal to those with a more refined eye for such things, the duskrunner moves on without a second thought. with winter coming to it’s full-swing the press of impending death lingers ever closer; the reaper creeping ever nearer. he was healthy, all things considered but travel-weary and though he hasn’t taken the time to note his general appearance, no doubt a bit worse for wear.

without clan leaves his hunting options to the slim pickins’ or scraps like some sort of fucking scavanger.

in the region of the badlands, the clans were typically small to medium sized; working well enough for them as there were often numerous branch-off’s and resources stretched thin in the heart of the ravaged wasteland they called home. naturally, he gravitates away from the bigger packs that occupy the wilderness; black, leathery nostrils drawing in the scent of the pack’s claim he draws cautiously nearer in the here'n'now.

instinct told tvarog to quit his inner bitching and vying about ‘packless freedoms’ and admit that if he didn’t strap himself down with a clan for the winter, he wasn’t likely to survive long. it is instinct that drives him nearer; instinct that forces him to stop a respectful distance away, tip his head and send up a howl for anyone — guardian or leadership — close enough to greet him.