Ruske;;

      I could not content myself with the forest.


      It was no mirror of the time before. My Woodlands were dark and deep, home to rot and fungus, safe from the sun if I wished them to be. I had known those trees well; I had welcomed all their skeletons (save one). Perhaps that was the reason the Edge left a lingering itch deep in the fabric of my skin: it was half memory, half mirage. And the memory no longer tasted very sweet.


      On light hooves, I traveled south. I had many reasons to move, all separate from the pervasive trickle of fear into my brain. Helovia, ripe with potential, spread out all around me. New, uncharted territory – who knew what lay within? I studied the thinning trees as I moved, but they appeared to my senses as any other flora. I suffered little disappointment; use of my senses at all should be enjoyed as a success. Mere days before, I had crawled feebly from Death’s embrace, my flight waning, my time limited. Only by the graces of a stranger had I been restored; only by her grace did I move, a shambles of my former self, with any sense at all. Gratitude not soon forgotten thrummed in my chest; I set it aside. The particular hunger gnawing at my brain held no softer disposition in the face of courtesy. I must move away; wrecked, skeletal, I could but wander.


      Another hunger rumbled in my gut. It coincided with the scent of other creatures – equine. Interest and the underlying smell of grass drew me further. Other scents twisted on the cool air, creatures I failed to recognize. I thought of dragons, and my pace quickened.


      The meadow blossomed dull and spacious before me, grass browned with the passage of seasons – browned, but present. Rarely a man with time enough for eating, I nonetheless recognized the need for such a task, at present. I might, at the very least, do so in a new locale, where knowledge may be gleaned. I stalked from the trees like a wraith, my eyes twisting from one shadow to the next, all hungry. My own corner of the field seemed empty; I moved onward by degrees, snatching bites as I went. Some primal desire in the core of me died down, sated by the necessity of grazing (how I missed the Woodlands).


      Briefly, I thought of a dream long extinguished: a dream of any food, green and fresh, in the heart of the coldest months. An old dream, it had cost me more than I expected, at the time. I tucked it carefully away.


      I could no longer feign indifference. I feared the specter on my heels.


      For the time being, I considered myself defanged. I had become old and thin, my winter coat hanging in thick tufts over a frame of shoddy bone. Resplendence had given me strength enough, for a few days at least, but I required my own nourishment if I meant to survive. I could aspire to little in my present state. Thus, I contented my hungry mind with watching – watching everything. I recorded the scents of the day, the curious ineffective glare of the sun. I wish I could say I did appreciate the world more, so recovered, but it seemed little improved.


      A part of me continued to miss the old things – the fanged things – I had left behind.