he/him

This foul-mouthed, foul-of-breath and equally foul tempered Guardian wandered in from the West one day claiming to have fought his way teeth-and-claw through the Tangled Wood on his way heading out from his old home near the Seedscar.

His charge? Himself.

His goal? "Find meself some lunch. What's it to you?"

His reason for setting up his camp so close to the clan's portion of the sundial? To watch the birds. Apparently the ones out in the Scarred Wasteland aren't as colorful as the ones that live in the Sunbeam Ruins, nor their voices as sweet.

"Air's clean here," he mutters to himself between spoonfuls of a meaty, queasy-smelling broth. "'S not right...not right at all...where's the wind blowin' eh? Why'd she pick me...?"

The fire crackles. He pulls the beaked mechanical mask back over his head. His large claws flex as his thick tail drags over the earth and he curls closers to the flame's orange-red warmth. His stomach growls as he meditates on tomorrow morning's hunt.