[size=11pt]No longer does he feel the warmth of the sun upon his back.

Ah, he thinks to himself, there goes the only comfort of this miserable journey. Now there truly is nothing to guide him as he wanders to his death. Could it be nighttime, he wonders, or is there such a thick mat of leaves overhead that it’s blotted out the sun? Or has the sun hidden its face in shame just as he has? That would be comforting in some morbid way, to know there’s someone in the same boat.

The evening air here is thick with humidity. Leaves, twigs, and other such debris crunch under his light feet, and every now and then his antlers become stuck on some low-hanging branch or something else of the ilk. It saps up so much energy to wrestle his head free, he wonders why he bothers to keep walking. Why not just let it be and die where he is?

Well, he would prefer to die in a less indignant way. At the very least, he would like to have control over his final resting place; Mother Nature’s punishment for his deeds can wait, can it? Surely it will follow him into the afterlife.

He continues on and on, expecting himself to just drop at any moment, but it seems that heaven has yet to claim him. Oh, how he longs to just die already.

His nose twitches. There’s a strange, unfamiliar scent.

Deersong’s ears perk up at the sound of other animals. How peculiar--he had always been taught that there was nobody beyond the mountains, but clearly this is a hub of some sort, all busy and bustling … though there’s something in the air that makes him shiver, despite the heat, like a tangible evil is hanging in a cloud above him.

[color=#67c0e6]"Hello?" he calls into the night. His presence, previously undetected (in spite of his strange appearance), is now the focus of what feels like a thousand pairs of eyes, all narrowed and full of malice. Yes, he can taste it on his tongue; this is not a place he wants to be. This will not make a peaceful grave.

But what will they make of me? he wonders, shrinking in on himself as they circle him and trap him. He is skinny and weak, lacking an ounce of fat on his young bones, and there is no need for his fur in this heat, so he would not make a good meal nor a good coat to keep warm at night.

Though he does think he’d make a good example. He gets the feeling this particular group doesn’t take kindly to strangers.

[color=#67c0e6]"W-Wait," he stammers, mustering the courage to stand up straight and tall--it doesn’t make him any more intimidating, but at the very least he does not want to look like a coward. [color=#67c0e6]"Do not hurt me," Deersong insists. [color=#67c0e6]"I--I would just like to pass peacefully."

He means that in more ways than one.

[size=11pt]There exists a place, so they say, where the elders of the Mountain Folk go to die. Nearing the final stages of their life, when their fur greys at the roots and their bodies grow frail and droop, they make the long journey to their final resting place--a beautiful lake, he's heard, where flowers bloom year-round and there is food aplenty. It's an honorable journey, if you've lived a live of productivity and fulfillment.

However, Deersong is hardly six seasons old. He is by no means elderly, and certainly not honorable. If anything, he's the very definition of a disgrace.

The marks on his face bear no meaning to the Pittians, but in his own clan, it makes it loud and clear to everyone around that he is scum, untouchable filth. The marks on his face give permission to everyone and anyone to treat him worse than the dirt between their toes.

He is no criminal, however; he is too gentle to ever commit a crime grave enough to bring this upon himself. He is simply a strain upon the Mountain Folk's resources; unable to hunt for himself, they chose to brand him so that he would not take from those more worthy.

It sounds awful to outsiders, but it's just their way of life, and he has no place trying to instill change when it has been this way since the founding of their tribe.

"You may call me Deersong. I am on my way to die," he blurts. [color=#67c0e6]"There is a place far from the mountain where my kind go to live out their final days."

His eyes focus on nothing. He stares straight ahead, right through the one in front of him.

[color=#67c0e6]"... however, I am not sure if I have taken the right path ... in any other case, there would be a guide, but ... not for me." Oh, how embarrassing. [color=#67c0e6]"Um, where ... exactly is this place? I had no clue there were other tribes beyond the mountains. Is there a lake nearby? That is where I need to go."

[size=11pt]There, he thinks he has found the source of that tangible evil. It speaks to him in grumbling tones, low enough to feel in the pit of his empty belly, and from it emanates such a complex feeling he feels rather guilty overgeneralizing it so (but there is no better word for what hangs in the air with Argus' presence.)

Deersong turns his head in the dragon's general direction, but does not look up or down. He still stares straight ahead, eyes cloudy and unseeing. He is already afraid and quaking, but that fear would have increased tenfold had he been able to see the monstrosity towering above his head--the same could be said for Redvox, too, such a strange creature.

The Pitt. It's a pit, alright--a big, black, void, where one wrong step leads to a life of eternal misery ... Deersong gets the feeling he's nowhere near where he's supposed to be.

[color=#67c0e6]"No, it was not my home," he says, voice quivering. [color=#67c0e6]"I cast myself out for their sake. I do not wish to be a burden upon their shoulders anymore, nor would I want to impose the same upon your group."

... there goes the rumbling in his belly. Deersong has the slightest burst of renewed energy at the mention of a second home--no, a second chance. Maybe, just maybe, his hopeless wandering has led him to something better than that fabled lake.

It's all too good to be true.

[color=#67c0e6]"... I am not that naive. If you wish me to join your group, there must be a catch, correct? I am blind, my friend, and I am wasting away. There is nothing that I can offer you."

[size=11pt]Ah, a warning! How welcoming.

Deersong smiles a bittersweet smile, tinged with the faintest bit of cynicism. [color=#67c0e6]"I have suffered abuse at the paws of my own kind for too long, my friend. See the markings under my eye--it brands me as the scum of the earth. My family, my friends, the ones that are supposed to take care of me have made it clear that being dependent is a crime." No longer shaking, he heaves a soft sigh and shakes his head.

[color=#67c0e6]"As an outsider, you may not understand. It is simply how we--they live. The Mountain Folk's resources are scarce and can only be afforded to those that earn their keep." Though the tale he tells of his tribe is rather unsettling, his voice remains flat, rid of the fear he felt upon arrival. He would like to think that his two options are either to turn back or to continue forward, and neither option will see any harm to him, though he supposes if he were to keel right here, right now, he couldn't complain. His wish is to die, after all, but it would be preferable to do it on his own terms. [color=#67c0e6]"I cannot hunt, I am constantly ill. One less mouth to feed means less strain upon them."

[color=#67c0e6]"... however, that was all on the assumption that if I left, I would have nowhere else to go but the lake ... I am not so sure now." Deersong has been through enough hurt in his life. He wishes they could guarantee he would not face the same abuse here. It's clear they can't make any promises, and he knows to expect nothing. [color=#67c0e6]"Tell me, what exactly is so terrible about this place? If you are offering me a second chance at life, you cannot all be so bad."

[size=11pt]Deersong is not a vengeful dog. If anything, he is a bit of a pushover--he knows he should have stood up for himself long ago, that there is some fault in calling his mistreatment tradition, but ... there isn't much he could have done, not all by himself. Resistance would have been just as futile as taking it laying down. Leaving was the best choice he could have made. He considers it his first and last favor to the Mountain Folk.

[color=#67c0e6]"... I still have a hard time believing joining you is free of cost," he insists. [color=#67c0e6]"There must be something I have to do, yes?"

He is a bit put off, both by the brutal honesty of Redvox and Argus about their home. It's refreshing that they do not blatantly disregard their flaws while still holding their clan in (somewhat) high regard. He is enticed by the thought of finally having a community--a family of his own. Acceptance is much more appealing than death, he thinks, now that he knows he's not alone in the world.

A sudden rush of excitement washes over him. Deersong's ears perk up and his tail wags hard. [color=#67c0e6]"Even so, I should like to join your ranks." He isn't quite sure what he's getting into, really--for all he knows, he just plunged himself face-first into hell on earth. From the sound of it, that very well may be what he gets.