Hoshor Plains fayetteville gets hot in the summer

badlands, badlands, badlands ...—

that moment, so fresh in his mind ... because it was his only real memory? or because it was so very recent? ... haunts his dreams and apparently his waking hours. sharp, harvest gold eyes boring into him from a distance; mouths twisted in arrogant sneers, gaze never wavering as the coyotes whisper to themselves in their native tongue, spitting badlands.

a sharp breath is taken as if he resurfaces from the violent sea of that memory, realizing that he had ( dangerously, perhaps ) disassociated. the thousand yard stare had nestled itself upon his facial features during those stolen moments, claiming its new host.

he has successfully avoided the massive herd of beasts and is startled to realize that there are footfalls approaching him. he turns, confident that from the lack of weight to the sounds that it was not one of the beasts in pursuit, moss green gaze taking in the pale and soft greyed slyph approaching.

a low chuff of greeting leaves badlands' lips, a curious tilt of his head given. you alright there, miss? he inquires, wincing as he hears his voice for the first time since ground zero. it's not unpleasant; it is deep to match his size, a low rumbling baritone. quiet because a man of his stature does not need to raise his voice to be heard.