The Bracken Woods tell me about how you burned rome to the ground

a stranger, coated in blondes and soft greys — a stark contrast to the harsh colors of autumn that have struck these lands: burnt oranges, violent reds, bruise purples and drab browns as if waiting for the first snow to finally breathe a sigh of relief — draws vormekta's hoarfrost gaze.

a path of least resistance is revealed.

the choice should have been easy but the wolves of tuskbone were not made from taking the paths of least resistance. this, the stalker knows in his veins, feels in the marrow of his bones. even so, already he would have to pause to clean his wounds. shallow though they were, that did not make them resistant to possible infection.

losing a limb in battle was honorable. losing one to the foolishness was not.

a low huff of breath before steps taking the dark vormekta towards the stranger and a path free of the nuisance of thorny bushes.