Herbalists' Cache i've got a taste for blood

Alas, he is chained.

In a way he hadn’t expected, and shackled by his own doing. His skin crawls with the itch to move, unlike the unconscious forms that slumber on; seemingly peaceful underneath the beast’s watch. Their age shows in the way they’re tucked against each other; he finds himself an odd third party to their small parade.

Friendship, was it?

The Wayfarer finds himself conflicted, yet it gives him a purpose to go onward, and their company isn’t loathed. A storm brews within, dulled by champagne eyes that stare unyielding. He shifts away from the duo, creeping from the thick of their encampment to a place on his own—

The itch doesn’t cease, yet he releases a breath, the burn akin to the drag of a cigarette. Heavy snow plows on, coating everything around them in winter-white. The moon casting a soft indigo glow.

He sits, time lost.

Rustle, snap. A smirk curves across his dark muzzle; he thinks that someone else may have stumbled upon them, an excuse to flex muscles when he feels the need to. Yet, when he goes to investigate, it is a familiar silver form. Ducked low, fragile in the frost; more like a thin sheet of ice over a lake, ready to crack underneath pressure than the towering fortress the tiny coywolf typically exudes.

The smirk vanishes. He isn’t a man to comfort; shoulder he can, pressure he can, fight he can, yet comfort is foreign territory, just as the Wilds are to him. A lot of firsts for him to experience, and all wrapped around Ghost’s finger.

He approaches Ghost’s side wordlessly, sitting to the right.

Ugh this post sucks compared to yours :(