Deepwood Weald So lovely on the eyes.

It had been about a month since he'd last visited home, not that he was counting. After encountering the pale stranger on the edge of the Shadewood and having a really weird reaction (ie: a low grade heart attack) Tywyll had been too worn-out to do anything besides sleep, which meant he hadn't hunted or eaten or even considered finding his way home until the snow had gotten so dense that, when he did give it a shot, he didn't know where he was going. The boy did his best to stay fed and warm until the snow began to melt, and when spring finally began to make some headway he found himself on the border of the hinterlands. Not that he was aware of his position in the wilderness; the forest was a tangle of endless odd shapes and shadowed contours.

That, and his lack of experience or training when it came to the world outside of the plateau's claim, could've explained how he'd woken up this morning in the middle of heckin' nowhere. This forest looked nothing like the sprawling composition he'd departed from, but Tywyll didn't have a mind for details; trees were trees and rocks were rocks, etcetera. He became aware of the scent of other wolves quickly enough though and that made him a little bit nervous. What if he had another episode like when he'd met that pale wolf? What if he died? His mind began to concoct various scenarios of his own demise and so he was quite distracted, falling victim to his imagination as his hungry, spider-legged self crept along the edge of the deepwood.