He hadn’t meant to lose Paradise so quickly after gaining it. Azrael’s guilt weighs heavily on him, despite feeling relatively lucky that the new leader is letting him stay. He had hardly interacted with the draft mare beyond pleading for his home, and he had immediately afterward slinked away back into the jungle, embarrassed.

The feeling of failure keeps him up at night, and Azrael stands on the beach at the edge of his allotment of Paradise, staring somewhat sullenly over the calm waves. He knows he will have to face this eventually, but he hardly feels like an adult by now and had bitten off more than he could chew. The small herd he has cultivated remains with him in Paradise, and for that he is grateful, but he avoids them out of fear of their disappointment. Most of his time is spent ambling quietly along the borders of the Coast, a little more paranoid than he should be.

To worsen his fears, Azrael is aware that the Crown of Paradise has recently forged a feud with Tyr in the Ridge. Though Az has never met him, he’s aware of his reputation, and the fact that he is his grandfather. Tyr is a powerful creature, peaceful by choice but capable of great violence. Should it become known that Azrael is his grandson, things could get… very messy.

His ears swivel in the soft morning light, twisting to and fro with anxiety. So lost in thought is he that he doesn’t notice the approach of another, and his eyes remain worried and unfocused, gazing solemnly out to sea.