Work Text:
Travelling.
He was always travelling.
He never knew when to stop, only once forced would he ever do so.
Aethyr could never help himself. The arms of the forests and mountains grappled his mind, leaving him to drift. The bushes called to him. He was just a puppet, strung by the adventures his young self concocted. While he had to remain sedentary, the brick-layed prison of his birth town tormented him with its lack of excitement. There was no excitement within its midst, only the same routine he couldn’t bear. As he grew, the adventurer's soul that chimed within him grew fainter, but never left him. The yearning of the summits that watched over the earth, and the deep forests that held the little thing close never stopped calling. The ring just dampened over time.