Sleepy Fox Hollow yeah, i've been throwin' down the whiskey

the morning sky, painted in drab colors of grey, works against kaskae as he trudges along the slick rocks of sawtooth spire. after spending the past few nights nestled in a cavern seeking the relative dryness from the rains and snows when the temperature dropped, he decides he can no longer remain there.

perhaps because there would always be a part of him that yearned for structure, yearned for socialization despite that he wasn't great at it.

never was, never would be.

the branch of tartok he'd stayed with on and off had seemingly accepted it but, as he was bound to do: found his way back to the wilds.

in the higher elevations of the spire the mist is thick and comes with a chill that seeps into his bones. it forces him to slow; to be mindful of where he stepped and then the scent of pack that grows stronger with each step he takes forces him to stop all together.

he was nearing borders; had to be.

yawning below he could make out the cradle of a valley and on little more than a impulse tilts his head back and howls for the wolves that inhabit the hollow, announcing his presence near their doorstep.