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He wakes up to darkness and disorientation. It’s… not something he’s terribly familiar with since his superior senses should help him with those. But it’s cramped, where he finds himself curled up, and getting himself into a vertical position turns out to be more difficult than expected.
There are wooden planks above him, but they must be old and damaged since breaking them is easy despite the tremor in his limbs. But then he’s able to stretch and get his circulation back on track.
Good!
Now what?
He realizes that he has no clue where he is. The scents around him seem familiar, but they’re so muted that he can’t place them. It’s not home. Not a den that he can retreat to and recharge in.
Home.
Yes. That’s where he wants to go. Even though he has no idea where that is. Even though he has no idea who he is, either, or what has happened to land him… here.
He’s dirty. And naked. And smelling faintly of smoke. With a hint of blood, he thinks.
Probably not the aftermath of a party that went off the rails, then. But… Better not think about it. He doesn’t need his headache to become worse.
So, home it is.
He’ll have to let instinct lead him. And maybe, once he gets to some place that’s not… here, he’ll start to remember things.
He steps out of what seems to be the sad remains of a house, only to be greeted by trees. Lots of them.
The smell of smoke is stronger—and fresher, like something had burned there only a day ago—somewhere to his left. He veers right instead and catches a new scent.
It’s like ozone on a rainy day, with a zing to it that makes his hackles rise. And underneath that… something metallic… and gun oil. That should make him want to steer clear, but it lacks that ever-present hint of wolfsbane that signifies a hunter. It’s also a transferred scent, so the one who brought it here isn’t the one he’s drawn to.
He can’t explain why having that scent in his nose makes him feel safe. He must have been exposed to it quite often in the past. He must trust the person it belongs to. But it’s a well-buried memory. He can’t grasp it itself, only the emotions attached to it.
Longing. Regret. Hope.
It might only be wishful thinking that he expects to find refuge at the end of that scent trail.
He follows it anyway.