Lassitude was something that wasn't unusual to accompany old age. As bones grew brittle and muscles grew lax and stringy, the weariness was almost a sludge that built up in forgotten corners. The old Medicine Man could definitely feel the first part, his joints starting to creak and fatigue setting on quicker than it used to, but the latter... Hawthorn had always had a rather clean and spritely spirit. He had certainly had his ups and downs, but sheer will and determination dragged him out of the downs and he would set himself flying again.

Even at nineteen years of age.

Though it was certainly in his nature to just be as such, his son had by no means played a small role in keeping that spark of inspiration beneath his metaphorical wings. Even when he might have thought himself starting to get too old to travel very far any more, he knew he wanted to show his son as much of the world he knew as he could. More importantly, he wanted to introduce him to his own mother. He'd had faith and a gut feeling that she had still been alive, though he knew she was nearing the end of her days. It had been a tearful reunion and goodbye, as he was certain he would not see her again after that last visit.

Home again, as he had come to call Moladion. It was strange for a Gypsy to consider anywhere to be home, but there it was. A fact that there was no use in fighting. His spirit had finally found that that little place it fit into nicely, cradled without being constricted. And he had found people, family of sorts, who seemed content to let him come and go as he needed to. It brought a sense of peace to an aging heart.

He had found Alice by the side of the river after a bit of confusion and backtracking. At first he could have sworn he smelled her, but the scent was faint and he kept losing it to what he was entirely certain was the smell of bear blood. It was cause for concern, though as far as he could tell, he did not smell her own blood mixed in with it. To his eyes she was not much easier to make out, as that familiar fawn and grey coat was a dark, stifling red. That shape was definitely hers, however.

"Alice," he called out to her as he approached and his voice cracked a little. He couldn't hide that bit of concern that she might be injured. It was hard to believe she was coated in so much blood, after all, and that none of it could be her own. "You're... a mess." Smooth, Hawthorn. Very smooth. "Are you all right? Hurt?"

He was then close enough that he could tell the heat of the sun on her crimson coat caused the drying blood to give off a particularly tangy, metallic scent. In all honesty, it sort of worked for her, smelling like rust.

"And hello," he thought to add in a warmer, less perturbed tone.