Bearclaw Valley born in a ditch

in the early tresses of morning; dewkissed and touched with gold of buttery sunbeams peeking out beneath the thin wispy clouds, the deathwreaver ghosts along the stone circle. a pillar has fallen and crumbled from it's place on the ground and he's tempted to investigate, to see if there are any prizes to be found among the ruins. without a stable place to stay, he does not see the point in resuming the pursuit of what has long since been lost — though plenty of treasures has caught his magpie-like eye.

a breath is taken; the sweet scent of grasses and musk of damp earth fills his nostrils — and brings with it a pang of homesickness for the tang of salt. he can hear it, he thinks; the coast trying and failing to lure him back. he cannot —

not when he knows he'll only disappoint his mothers again. not when he knows they have new children to nurture and love. better children.

with a small grit of his teeth, scarab pushes forth; weary as he draws nearer to the scent of borders. it is all unfamiliar to him, the scents. scarab slows; weighing his options as carefully as osiris weighs the hearts against the feather. it is methodical; practiced. a brutal art.

it is not; scarab reminds himself, as if he has anything to lose. he is untethered to anyone and anything. and if he is turned away? he will keep traveling. with these thoughts drifting 'round his mind he lifts his muzzle and lets out a howl