Lost Creek Hollow without you

Wardruna watches with a keenly observant jack-o-lantern eye: the left eye, the pupil of the iris pooled with blood at the bottom stares ahead unseeing and devoid of the narrowing and widening of the right pupil that studies her as she slowly turns to face him. She would be pretty, the northerner thinks, if her cheeks were not sunken, her face near skeletal. No, he thinks, she still strikes him as pretty despite that. Just dull and devoid of that fire of life. Idly, Wardruna wonders how close to death she is. There is an inquisitive movement of his head noting that she does not draw nearer but does not take to flight. How does such a lovely creature get so broken? Wardruna does not speak. He moves nearer to her: unsure if he intends to play predator or savior or some cross between. He cannot know yet. He draws as near as she will allow, seeking to push his black, leathery nose to the fur of her neck if she allows it with intent to drink in her scent to determine if it is illness that grips her or something else altogether. While Wardruna smells nothing from afar ( and his keen nose has sharpened in the absence of half of his sight ) he does not trust that alone.