Whitewater Gorge wyrd bið ful āræd

in the early morning mists, the man cloaked in dusk made his rounds. crawled from his newfound den, tucked away beneath a rocky, mossy outcrop. prowling through the timber on the hunt for herbs. 

he slid amongst the foreground with what was nearly perfect grace—his leg was far better than when he arrived to forneskja, and thanks to white sylph, he was able to move around without much pain. still slower than most, but it was good enough. 

on his path came a scent of ichor, followed by a bellow of a voice he was not familiar with. ever the curious, he changed his stride, slinking through the tree's old trunks until he found a mountain of a man. proud in stature, speaking a language that sounded similar to sólhárrs.

a stranger to this lands, and yet cicero would not be the one to chase him away. he was inclined now, with his new title, to help. to heal. emerging from the shadows, he slid forward, chin tilted as eyes of silver met the behemoth's. 

"you speak to the trees?" he commented, his tone even and dull, but there was a tinge of amusement tucked away. "odd, injured man. let me help you."