Hoshor Plains fayetteville gets hot in the summer

badlands' tail sways against his haunches, ears cupping forth to attention as she offers him a compliment. he is flattered, and lets out a low chuckle that borderlines embarrassed. he's seen his reflection in ponds and rivers and lakes, of course, but hasn't ever really thought about it. or perhaps he did. perhaps he had once been like narcissus, utterly obsessed with himself. but the scars he could see on his legs ... he doubts that. even if he couldn't fully trust his own doubt.

even if he'd been, the point was his past no longer mattered. he couldn't remember it. he couldn't remember him.

he feels like he needs to tell her she's pretty, to return the favor of a compliment — because she was pretty; a small slyph of a thing — but it also felt to badlands like it might come across as disingenuous.

and as a man of intention, he wasn't interested in being anything other than as genuine as he could be. even if he wasn't quite sure he wanted to go around tell the masses that he suffered severe memory loss and felt, at times, as young gangly cub might still discovering himself.

her next question throws badlands for a bit of a curve ball and he feels his left ear twitch back, his head tilting slightly to the side as he regarded her. did he have a wife? did he? or maybe he had a husband? was this a trick question? was she his wife?

these worries are soothed as his dissects the moment, reminding himself there appeared to be no recognition when she first came across him.

no, he answers. i am alone. a sobering reality that he had no relationships: not romantic, not platonic, not even those of a pack.