Moonspear fulthark

He had climbed along the mountains for what felt like years, stopping to rest in the night where a plateau welcomed him. He watched the stars until he drifted off to sleep, then climbed down from the great view, and carried on through the range without issue. Occasionally his pace would slow; he would drift, the road behind him already forgotten.

A pile of deer scat refocused his mind long enough for Larus to begin hunting—but an hour or so later he was roaming again, hunger forgotten. He came upon the outskirts of the mountain claim completely by accident; thankfully, the scents laid there were strong enough to keep him out. He lingered with his head low, shoulders hunched together, investigating what he'd found but somehow unable to parse why he felt compelled to keep away.

Then, he bowed to that line. Slanting a shoulder against the rough-shod dirt, the man tumbled in a heap and began to wriggle against the soil, gathering the scents he'd found there and dirtying his grizzled coat in the process. As he rolled to his belly again, a dusting of red decorated the mantle of his coat. He huffed, shook out his shoulders, then sat there with a blank expression on his face — having forgotten what he was doing already.