Hushed Willows Amid a Crashing World

Out he rode, through verdant tree and smoken air. Upon his steed he roamed. Bow and Gun strewn 'pon his back.
Outlaw moved with quiet precision; reared the beast with every hoof-step and earth-scuff. And as he did go, he waved to his family—his gang. His friends. His lady. Their boy, who looked to his father so eagerly.
Of whom whistled a tune as he went.

It was in single thunderclap, struck akin to that of lightning as he gasped, brought forth; awoken, as if from a nightmare. Laced in sweat, as one should be, if such had occurred. But this  man woke from no nightmare—but a life once lived.
A life, long gone, and yet, remembered. Cherished so dearly.

His wife, his son; he remembered it all so clearly, however, it slipped. Slipping, slipping, like the sun downwards of the sky, pouring wineblood and inking the sky in shadow and star and moon. Gone, as quickly as it came, and yet still he tried to hold—hold tight, hold fast, screamed, cried his mind. But perhaps he was too late.
He knew nought but his own name. Barrett. Barrett Ward. Something of this struck a cord, deep and familiar within him. He looked up; breathed in the air, stuck his paws—paws? No time for that—into the earth.
Shining emerald, as if unaffected by the seasonal change of the lands. A whisper of a place; the home of fairytales, such as those he would tell to... someone. Someone, long ago. He struggled to push a breath past the lump in his throat.

His first instinct was to move. So, move he would. Let his body guide him. The breeze and its' persuasiveness. Cleared his throat. Careful not to be too loud. On guard, and yet, not entirely unwelcoming of strangers.
Could use some directions 'round here, afterall.