Northstar Vale the shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn.

The mountain range rose as an impenetrable fortress upon first glance. The way they towered above all other objects in his periphery was impressive but he knew to find what he sought, he'd have to keep moving despite the obstacle. The feeling that Yellowbelly had (of needing to get away) had faded from his mind entirely by now — he had no recollection of the pleasure he'd wrought from the willing shadow nor the turmoil of fighting the ginger woman. He was utterly at peace with his journey.

Something about the mountains called to him though. It was a feeling deep in his bones, perhaps even beyond the physical and closer to something ephemeral — as if he belonged in their higher reaches. As if his search would only end when he had found the highest peak, or the perfect view of the stars overhead. With this thought in mind he looked skyward and winced against the spring sunlight; but he was making excellent time, and did not feel tired in the slightest.

As the ridge cut away and he was forced to press himself awkwardly against the soil to prevent himself from tumbling down the steep inclines, Yellowbelly slowly reached a point where the plateau leveled out. The vale was familiar to him, he realized. He knew these paths — had run them before, surely — yet there were no familiar faces to be found. The boy roamed to the lowest point within the sprawling vista, and felt as if something was wrong — no, something was missing.