Viđarr had not been settling in well. It had been difficult to find a home, somewhere to rest his head. Just when he thought that there was something, there was a place-- nothing. He was living as a wanderer, a drifter, and it did not suit him. He’s a sentinel, a watcher by nature. What was he without something to watch over?
Though Viđarr had been in this place mere weeks, the shadow of a man feels far older than he did when he arrived. It’s as if his soul is starving. There is something oddly hollow about Viđarr, and he can feel it in his chest. Still elegant. Still handsome in his own right, but there is much less light in his eyes these days. He is more careful, more reserved. Vigilance is important when you’re on your own, but it’s exhausting.
He picks his way across the meadow with high steps, seeking out a spot in the sun. Simple joys, these days, simple joys. It was noon, the sun hanging high in the sky, and he can allow himself to enjoy that. The day was cloudless. Atop one of the few higher points in the Meadow, Viđarr finds a spot where most of the sun has melted away. The grass is a bit muddy, and mostly brown, but it doesn’t matter. Food is food. He would lower his velveteen muzzle to graze, relaxed but always alert. It wasn’t the worst day.
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