Sleepy Fox Hollow splitting threads of thunder over me

misery permeates the hollow, thickens the air until zephyr can scarcely breathe; not entirely his own, however.

the stranger approaches at breakneck speed, cloaked in midnight and shrouded in near-tangible sorrow. he does not acknowledge the wraith — at least, not until he nearly barrels into him. zephyr takes a step back, having never felt half so much a ghost as he does when the man's dulled golden gaze seems to stare right through him. something about this perfect picture of a shattered soul appeals to him. when the husk of a wolf turns to flee, the wraith follows, a silent silver shadow as if the sun has inverted itself upon the land.