Moonsong Glacier When you are lost and I am gone.
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"God is every bit as feral as that which he creates."
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Ooc — Striga
Master Warrior
Ecologist
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He grew ill with fever, and the sea moved on mindlessly. He found his way home to be tended, and the season shifted.

As he left, awake and trembling with weakness in his body, he felt nothing. The world drifted around him: first the Glen, ripe with the scent of family he would never know. The familiar Heartwood which once served as his testing ground alongside Arcturus. The crux of a river, a fringe of forest. He slept intermittently but did not wake feeling rested.

He did not feel anything—only a deepening cold, one that seeded deep inside of his aching heart. That night as he fell in to a late slumber, plumes of his breath billowed draconic whispers from his lips. He would drift and he would dream, and in the morning Revui would wake to his empty life and know it was time to make something for himself.
The woods have always been filled with these soft doe-eyed things;
with hearts beating for the arrow, the bullet, the lance.

I have always been the huntsman.