WEIR
The eccentric man of the Dale felt like he had been sleeping for centuries. In truth, that was because he had been. A curious sort of creature tucked away in an enduring form of magic meant for stillness, cryostasis finding his body until he had preserved his very being within the chaotic rhythm of an ever changing Beqanna. Funny that, how the world he’d known kept reminding him that he wasn’t the only thing that had found a way to persist.
Even if that usually meant that his sentences never did seem to seek punctuation.
Not the way that he had been told they should.
The smell of smoke keeps him tethered, the reality of the present inflated by a warning scent of potential danger. Yet, even when it could mean (should mean) trouble, that only spelled adventure to a man that never did follow a particular pattern of what was, and wasn’t expected of him. Neither was the jubilant way he trotted up to the small gathering, wait, no that part was actually fully expected.
“I’m not sure you have a permit for that my dear boy,” he mused thoughtfully, taking in his current company with illicit interest. Flicking an ear watchfully as the big cat moved, but not because he was necessarily worried or afraid. Weir was simply prepping for action, should the need arise, but I think, yes, that the only action needed was a curve of his neck and a well placed graze of his teeth to his ginger pelt. Gods that was a nasty itch.
WINTER IS COMING