It had been a few months since Hemlock left the Agency-- he lost track of the exact day he finally reached the end of his fuse and went off the handle on his team, severing all ties and going off on his own; but the time didn't matter because he felt like he was where he was always supposed to be. Among the gentle beings of the earth, the lush greenery dappled sweetly by the sun, and the darkest caves under starry night skies. He felt more at home with the bare soles of his feet buried in the mud than he ever felt at the sorry studio apartment he would return "home" to after a long day of casting spells for the Agency that never really resonated with his true sense of self. Although he cast spells much less prolifically since leaving there, his magic had become more potent, and a single thoroughly-researched spell could equal the power of ten of the type of spell he had been casting on behalf of the Agency.

Every day was different for Hemlock, and ironically this day was no different in its uniqueness. He kept no calendar, no clocks, and only slept when it was dark and woke when it was light. The light had filtered through a small hole in the stitching of his tent that morning, shining directly into his eye. It was as good an alarm as any, and he reluctantly squirmed out of his sleeping bag and began making a small fire to cook eggs and fish for a protein-rich breakfast.

After finishing his meal, he stood without wiping the remains of his meal from his face, and tossed the fish bones into a clump of dirt to compost. He grabbed his walking pole from where it leaned against a tree, and wrapped his tent up tight, stuffing it into a bag he swung onto his back. He had no plan for where he would go that day, but he knew he wouldn’t travel far— as he continued, the mountains became increasingly treacherous, and scaling the steep cliff faces would slow him down considerably. He had made a few friends in the area who were available to bring him supplies as he passed through, but beyond that he was alone in his aimless journey. He expected no visitors that day, as he rarely-- if ever-- left any way for others to contact him. To find him, someone would have to follow a trail of word of mouth, finding clues from each town he had visited that pointed to his direction. Someone with that perseverance and attention to detail was rare to find, and Hemlock had only ever known one person with the sort of second sense required to find him no matter where he roamed, and it was the last person in the world he would ever want to talk to.