@Ace For the sake of not assuming things, I'm going to say this is day or so before his joining thread via Pitch Pine Trail. Hope that's ok! Hover over the German for the translations. :-)

The sun had just reached it’s peak in the sky, making it about mid-afternoon, if Kasimir had to rough a estimate, though in the darkness of what, he thought was a forest it was cool, the alien greenness of the place keeping the pressing heat of the world outside the Verdant Mosses at bay. For this, the Northerner was grateful. Though Kasimir was capable of adapting, a lovely gift Mother Nature had bestowed upon most species, he had a distinct feeling that it would take him some time to get used to the stifling heat that the Summer brought with it to Relic Lore. Far, far up North, the Summers were warm and the Winters frigid. Despite that his coat had thinned for the summer months, he still felt the sluggish, uncomfortable heat. In truth, Kasimir wasn’t sure that he was really all that fond of Summer. His favorite season had always been Fall; morbid though it sounded he thought there was a beauty to the colors of death, the oranges, reds, browns, yellows, to the warmish day and cool nights. Adapting, like change, took time. Fortunately, for Kasimir, Summer was nearly half over, and come next summer, should he still linger in Relic Lore, he wouldn’t be caught so unprepared.

This alien…Wald, if that was truly the word Kasimir wanted to use, calling it what he would in his native tongue, since, more or less, that was the language that he thought in, was covered in moss, fungi, and other assortments of green…stuff. It covered the fallen, rotted trunks of what once appeared to be majestic trees, like parasites. It squished under his paw pads, between his toes, making that unappealing, wet ‘splat’ noise, causing the Northerner to cringe with every step. Bright, turquoise eyes surveyed his surroundings, wondering, without any real answer, how he had ended up in the green maze. It was too quiet here, he felt, missing the calls of birds to one another, the scuttle of a prey’s claws. Every once and a while he’d hear the sound of a bug of some sort, though he did not care enough to look, buzz by his ear, the muscles forcing it to twitch in case said insect decided to land. With a glimpse towards the canopy -- also, unsurprisingly, green -- above he let out a soft sigh of what might have been defeat before plopping down on his haunches deciding it was better to remain stationary while he collected his bearings and decided which way he wished to go. To continue, or to attempt to retrace his steps and wrangle his way back out the way he’d came in.