A Sight for Sore Eyes
The smell of cinnamon and sugar permeated throughout the air of a small ageing stone cottage, battling the fresh scent of nature that blew in through the open windows.
Seated on the one and only sofa in the living room was an old man with weakening bones, an embarrassing limp and an odour akin to decaying mothballs dropped in fresh dew.
Claw, as was the name he now went by, pulled himself up from his lush sofa and ambled over with a slight wince, to the sink he'd fashioned in his dusty old kitchen. There was no running water… but at least there was a bucket of it on the ground, fetched from a creek that flowed through his very own sanctuary.
Leaning over the sink, the old shifter heaved and emptied a hefty amount of contents from his stomach. This was the third time today… and each time, he was left with a bitter taste in his mouth that was nothing compared to the weight in his heart.