Phantom Hollow capture the erymanthian boar

Through the thick of dying trees, she can see him. Velveteen and covered in layers of ashen silvers and blacks that feel darker than night itself. He is shrouded in haze. When she looks, he stares back. She wished he wasn't so intoxicating. 
Wren is careful not to show fear. She is not afraid of him, but afraid of what her lack of inhibitions may make her do. A steady rise of hackles and a silent step backward, a brief flash of teeth that devolves into a lick of her tongue over her lips. 
She doesn't say anything to him, not yet. But her eyes never once stray from the seafoam that tries to drown her.