Felltree Marsh painting greys

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Komodo was not a brute who could be shied away from the messiness of the natural world — he yearned it. Making sense of such chaos gave the man unending pleasure and satisfaction. He flexed his toes against the soused earth, steeped in the last remnants of some archival storm; coal colored nose pushed against the putrefaction of the leaf litter; satellite-like ears flicked and brushed against the wind, tasting the spirits upon the fine hairs of his auditories. The world was his to read and then to harness, to connect litany with liturgy and find wholeness. To help these spirits find repose would, ultimately, help all who came in contact with this place.

With a snort, Komodo lifted his thickset head and nodded silently to no one other than himself. Yes, here he would commune on this night.

The angakkuq shoved his shoulder to shift the deerskin pouch [of his own making] that hung round his neck to his side, and in doing so, his gaze lifted and found the form on a woman. She perched upon a stumped of a felled tree, watching him silently. Her presence did not alarm the man, for this was her earth just as much as it was his, and his steely eyes regarded her cooly. Komodo was a solitary fellow; a vagrant — but that did not mean he did not enjoy the company of another from time to time. Trotting forward, the words ”and who do we have here?” rumbled from his chest, carrying an auspice of interest in the dark women.

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