Ravensblood Forest chooses combat gear

He had paused, looking around to try and tether any sense of right from wrong — all endeavors easily thwarted.  He couldn’t grasp any notion of direction, let alone even begin to think with all of the surrounding, deafening notes.  From the chortles of insects, to the warbles of predatory nightsong, his head was so full of noise he was about to go absolutely bonkers!

— but then, suddenly, as though the flick of a switch, it stopped.  He was about to sigh in relief, had his ears not began to note those vividly distinct, and totally ominous footsteps approaching him from the void.  His voice swallowed down his throat along with his breath—he was silent, he was invisible, he really needed some brown pants to hide all of the [shit] that was about to escape him.  Oh fuck—oh raptor jesus—oh heavenly bitchin’ Christ—

— but then, instead of some monstrous voice echoing from the pitch, the sound equivocal to a dove bloomed, like some kind of holy flower surviving the snuff of pestilence.  He felt all of the air, once trapped solidly in his lungs, escape all at once into a bellow of snorting laughter.  “Cool it, little bird, calm,” he chuckled, approaching her so that she could better distinguish him from the dark.  “I’m no ghost, but like, that’d be suuuper sick if I was. Goin’ around bein’ all like ‘boo!’,” he lunged forward a little, playfully, “to people. Hah,” another snort of laughter, “it’d be a cool time.”  He looked down upon her with soft eyes and a big grin, “you like, lost too little bird?”  At least he wouldn’t be [as] scared now with her company.