The Lunareth pack lived far from the borders of Lycanthria. The pack lands were no different from his own: forests, wide cold rivers, endless stretches of pine, and hills. The buildings were made of dark stone and timber, built close together to block the wind. People here minded their business. Strangers were noticed but rarely questioned unless they caused trouble.
Marek was currently present in the Lunareth pack. He moved through the crowded marketplace with his head down, the rough wool of his black cloak pulled tight around him. The hood was drawn forward, casting his face in deep shadow. His boots were worn at the edges.
He has now become a ghost among the living, a man trying to exist in the spaces between glances. His body was a map of his journey so far. His muscles ached with a deep bone-tired fatigue that sleep could not cure. His skin was pale. The stubble on his jaw was thick and unkempt. His eyes were rimmed with red from too many nights spent with one eye open.
