Deepwood Weald a shadowy hand turns the page

The acrid tinge of blood in the air hit his nose next, at first just a hint of such on the wind. But it grew stronger and then footfalls closer, and he tore his thoughts and sight away to look upon the company that had found him. Like his wife, she was a raven-cloaked beauty but taller. Perhaps leaner on that basis alone, but easy enough on the eyes as he regarded her with mute interest. He ignored the kill at her feet—he wasn’t interested in making himself seem a threat for it.

“Of a sort, you could say,” he answered. “This used to be my home for a spell.” Another life ago, he wanted to add, but his tongue had stilled. He could have asked if she was from the area, but there was something about her that suggested otherwise. The accent, maybe, however light and fleeting as it were set her aside from the others. She bore the coat of a traveler, long loosed from her homeland much in the same way he was.

His gaze left her then, seeking refuge elsewhere for a moment. There was nothing else to ascertain from their surroundings and nothing to suggest that he had walked headlong into some trap ill-fitted for him. The weald had always had a certain sanctity to it, he thought, and perhaps it would always retain that. Perhaps not a suitable home for him now, but…

“It would seem it has become a home for others, now.”