Bearclaw Valley it means i'm broken and lame

as the morning grows later, yawning towards early afternoon the sun plays hide and seek behind thick candyfloss clouds that drift lazily across the skyline to obscure it. it's not hot — which the obsidian and smoke merle dappled man should be glad for, he reminds himself — but it isn't cold either. it's ...pleasant. a nice reprieve from the rain and mist he'd first been greeted into these wilds with, at any rate. with his stomach sated with a freshly caught rabbit, he cleans the bits of carrion, tufts of fur and blood from his muzzle burying what little bit remains — bones, mostly. from there, joaquin sets off with the intent of imprinting the valley's layout into his mind and, perhaps, taking a patrol in the meadow outside; following the same path the bearwitch had taken him on just but a handful of hours ago now.