Phoenix Maplewood all those empty rooms

he smells the stranger before he sees him, near blending with the snow but stark against the dark, bare trees. a scent that blends with the boundary markers along the treeline—undoubtedly a member of the pack that resides not far from these woods.

as he approaches, the traveler struggles to his feet even as unstable as he is on his legs, stiff now that he's stopped moving even for a moment.

his own posture is somewhat slouched—low, intended to be respectul, though some of it is certainly from tiredness.

it doesn't take much to tell his origins, not with the lingering scent of salt and sand and seafood clinging to his fur, even with how long it's been since he's been home. he'd not expected such a gentle tone. it momentarily takes him off guard, needing a pause before he speaks. forward, but not forceful, voice tinged with a vague accent.

I know, spoken quietly, pale eyes fixed on the other man, I've been walking for a long time. I don't know how long. Didn't count.

A few more seconds of silence, and his head lowers, more out of fatigue than anything else.

I came far. Searching.

Vague, but better words evade him.

I had to go.