Kirin drew a raspy breath. He'd been trying to find the elves, hoping for food, or shelter, or even a guide to point the way--but instead, the world had exploded. He didn't remember much after that.

He'd woken up almost completely covered in ash, pinned beneath a fallen tree. Only adrenaline and desperation had allowed him to free himself. Even now, his head spun and blood streamed from the splintered gash in his thigh.

He's losing resources he can't afford to, here.

Kirin has to keep moving.

By the time he staggers into a small clearing--everything was a clearing now, hah--he's almost unconscious, driven only by the need to keep moving. Stopping here means death. Falling means death. Kirin can't afford that. He has people waiting for him. He needs to find a shelter, at least. He can see an old castle, rising above the bowed trees, and makes for that.

He's not going to make it there, though. His leg has stopped aching entirely; he can't feel it at all, which is probably a bad sign. He needs to... he needs to...

He hears movement. Not the rustling of falling ash-on-foliage, or the creaking of stressed trees bent beyond their capacities, but purposeful movement.

It doesn't even occur to him, as he pushes forward and bursts into the clearing, that whoever it was might be hostile. At this point, Kirin has nothing to lose, anyway.

He limps to a stop and waits for the figure there to turn to face him, well aware of the startling figure he makes, covered in dirt and ash and blood, too-skinny and ragged.