Aphra crouched by the tiny pool of still water, peering into it. His hair brushed forward over his bare shoulders, stirring the surface. He could see his own reflection through the pond’s ripples, a lean, tired face and shoulders much broader than he remembered. The fingers that reached out to sweep his hair back were dirty and worn, scarred with labors he had preformed.
His reflection looked so wild, mangy almost. He combed his hands through his long black hair, straightening it a little, removing and retying the long feathers that hung there. He looked at himself again; he was rough, like a hungry wolf. He did not remember the last time he had spoken or seen another person. Aphra could not even recall the sound of his own name.