Sawtooth Spire saints have no moderation

his shadow is gone.

where she went to, worripa doesn't know; only knows that her scent no longer lingers over these mountains. perhaps, he considers: it is his fault ...or perhaps it was for the better. despite that, that particular thought does little to combat the sinking feeling in his chest.

the loneliness and pain of her disappearance.

thus, in the sugary sweet moonbeams of the early morning before the dawning of a new day, worripa sulks in the ( perceived ) safety of sawtooth spire; feasting upon the fresh(ish) corpse of a mountain goat that had been unfortunate enough to loose it's footing and fall to it's untimely death.

this time, worripa made sure he was not eating contaminated meat after the last time he'd been sick for a few days from the last boon. he eats small portions from it at a time after dragging it into the mouth of a cave for safe keeping. feeling no adverse side effects, he eats a little more; growling as he tears into the flesh.