Hoshor Plains fayetteville gets hot in the summer

moss green gaze sweeps over the plains; a spark of something familiar tugging at the back of his mind. there was not inherently familiar in and of itself about the plains that stretch before him: golden stalks of flora dried and trampled and dull of lustrous golden color he can tell that they once were.

it was just that the color reminds him of that place. the place he'd woken in with no memory of who he was. the coyotes that had lingered nearby disappointed that he had survived whispered one word that he could make out:

badlands.

he had thought they were speaking of him, naming him. badlands.

a gruff noise lingers in badlands' throat, a soft snort passing from his nostrils.

determined not to be distracted by getting caught up in the web of new memories and the strings that tie them, badlands continues on, towards the heart of the plains; steps faltering and hackles bristling slightly as he takes in the massive beasts idling; grazing. for them, he has no name.

he gives the small herd of bison a wide berth, not interested in picking a fight with them.