Deepwood Weald i never know how long i’ll be, it depends who’s asking

unlike the seafarer, alphus was well accustomed to the subtle, uncomfortable jabs of pain the tougher, unfriendly inland terrain would cause as pebbles and twigs would cut and become stuck between toes. all but a minor inconvenience to the youthful mountaineer who, despite being perhaps the dullest tool in the shed, was as well traversed as they come at his age.

the wayward yearling marched on through the weald, one step after another, nose low to the ground beneath shrubbery and brush, only stopping when the sharp, unfamiliar scent of sea brine reached his nostrils. the odor was off putting, and he took a few clumsy steps backwards as honey eyes glared ahead for the suspect behind the unfavorable stench.