Grayson stares at his boney hands and flexes, recalling the memory of a sword held tightly within his grasp. How heavy it felt when he had first picked one up and how light it became with practice despite the burden that weighed down on his shoulders. His very first sword had been made out of wood, a child’s toy that had been gifted to him. He carried it around stabbing and prodding anything that moved. Even Era had been on the blunt side of it, she had been everything from a dragon to a thief during his more imaginative years. If only the real thing had been quite as easily wielded as the fake. He opened his palms and traced it with his finger on the other hand; his palms were soft and unblemished. Not only had years of his life been taken away from him, his body subjected to brutality he could only imagine, but the whole life he had lived had been taken away from him as well. Where his hands were once hard and calloused from training and misuse what remained didn’t tell his story. He felt like a foreigner in his own body.

He had almost built up enough courage after the recruits left, almost. That was until another man he didn’t recognize (not that he could recognize anyone else in the camp) came shuffling in. Grayson hesitated, half sitting and half crouching in a strange awkward position watching the man as he wearily walked over. It didn’t occur to him that he was heading his direction until it was too late. Not that Grayson was avoiding anyone to begin with, but with the way he looked they typically had questions he wasn’t comfortable with or couldn’t answer. The man looked tired and worn from a day’s work, what that work was Grayson didn’t have a clue. The general assumption would be that he was one of Tristan’s men but something seemed off.

The guy sat down without a word and Grayson’s brows tweaked together curiously. He watched as he opened a flask grasped in his large hands. Grayson couldn’t help the eye roll that followed. It seemed like everyone was drinking these days. He didn’t understand how alcohol solved problems for anyone but then again neither did any other beverage. He had little experience with this besides the two swigs of brandy Grayson tried his first night here with Tristan. The first, wasted as it spewed from his mouth soaking the floor. The second, which was a little easier to hold down but it didn’t take the edge off, it didn’t do much of anything, maybe he just wasn’t doing it right.

Hand cramping he adjusted himself and slumped back against the fallen tree pulling himself in. He almost jumped when the guy coughed, sputtering through his words and the fluid. Apparently, he had been completely oblivious to his presence. Grayson offered a half-hearted smile relatively unaffected by the admission. To be fair, Grayson hadn’t really wanted company. So he turns away, disconnecting any outward invitation to a conversation with him. Grayson figured he’d leave, or sit there quietly with the same outcome inevitable. But he does something that causes Grayson to look at him wide-eyed and awkwardly. The fellow slides over and plops down right next to him as a gesture to join him.

Grayson side-eyes him for a moment, unsure of whether or not the stranger danger alarm should be blaring in his head. “I’m ok,” he says with a wave of his hand, “I’m not much for the taste anyways.” Plus the idea of drinking after someone he didn’t even know sounded revolting, but he wasn’t going to admit that out loud. The guy makes a reference he doesn’t understand and smiles to which Grayson awkwardly follows suit and offers a, “Yeah, if you say so.” Before turning his attention to the grass and plucking a few blades from its root, proceeding to mindlessly tear them apart.

To his next words Grayson belted a laugh, one so wholesome he wouldn't have been able to stop it if he tried. It hadn’t occurred to him that even though he didn’t know who this guy was, that he hadn’t seen him around camp either. Which furthered his suspicion that had only been an inkling only moments before that the man man not be from around here. “Guess you should have caught me a few weeks ago, you might have thought differently.” To be honest, Grayson didn’t know how he survived, perhaps it was his healing, luck, or even a miracle that pulled him through the first week. One thing was for certain, it wasn’t his will power that kept him alive. He was still trying to work through everything. Everything being with himself and with Shaman as a whole. He didn't know everything, he didn't know all the dangers that lurked around every corner. He had lost people, good people, people whom he loved and idolized, and he was still in the process of grieving even for them.

Grayson looked over at him dropping what few blades of grass that were still held captive by his fingers, he held out his hand. Finally submitting himself to the idea that he might not actually want to be alone at all, and decided to welcome the opportunity for distraction. “It’s Grayson.”

Grayson