The Time has Come

Stitches coughs, awakening from his last slumber. He sputters about and instantly reaches around himself as if looking for something. His cold fingers grasp in the muck and mud about him on the side of the road, clutching onto a clump of something. he yanks it from the mud to find his fingers firmly wrapped around a clod of wet and clumped dirt. He looks up to see Bread, his faithful companion on the road, and atop the saddle his now fairly grown fox kit Itharius. He pants softly, reaching up to wipe the rubbish from his face, reaching up towards the road from his resting place to grasp his estoc, stained and blunted at this point. 

Memory is getting harder for him now. At this point, finding Itharius in Forochel was the last he had remembered at all, with a blank period of time in between, filled with what he could only assume by the state of himself was more harshness. He can't even remember how he came to be out of Forochel, but as the drizzle of rain pecks at him tenderly, he clomps his dirty boots down the road in the direction of the signs that lead him to Oatbarton. His walking is accompanied by grunts of frustration, pain, or perhaps both, and bitter little murmurs spat out from between his quaking lips. Wildly his eyes dart around the edges of the road, as if expecting something. 

"He's had enough," the only shred of himself left might say to itself, "It's time to go home."