For Bastion Hollow, Drifter Bay; about mid-day. :: Word Count → 340
These lands were proving quite prosperous, if he said so himself. He had yet to come across anyone who'd been anything but kind, and that seemed to be the norm around these parts; open arms, welcoming smiles, and the like. He'd returned to the Drifter Bay area, and that lovely little alcove he'd taken shelter in a few nights earlier when the rain had come down so harshly, and was now toying with the idea of settling in these parts. He had no merchant connections, as yet, and so being a traveling tradesmen would do him no good; after hearing of Anathema, though, he rather thought that would be alright. His wanderlust was beginning to settle, anyway, and he wanted nothing but to have a large family again.
Of course, being part of a pack hierarchy, he would have to do his share of the work. It wouldn't be all fun and games, and he was used to hard work, he just...wasn't sure, exactly, what sort of work being in a pack entailed. He could play instruments quite well, which had made him valuable in the caravan to relieve the sindhi from their duties; he could work with animals--mostly horses, he'd admit--with little trouble. He'd learned to evaluate human jewelry...but what did he want to do? Being a loner, all he had to worry about was feeding himself, and staying off the bad-sides of...pretty much everybody.
Blowing a single, high note into his reed pipe, Drakien gazed out across the tall grass, trying to contemplate the pros and cons of the situation. Would it be better to join a pack? Or would he be happier staying true to his heritage, wandering until he came across someone who would wander with him? Thus far, no one seemed interested in a traveling pack; but then, he had no vardos to offer them, so what would be the point, really? Sighing, he began a slow, gentle tune through the reed flute, hoping to calm his tumultuous thoughts.
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