Deepwood Weald [m] bodies

the lord is with thee
the strange voice twists within his thundering eardrums. shaba shaba shaba shaba do not,
andras pauses, the air gravid with a foulness that even he himself could not place. when he looks up, he sees her. oh, a pretty young thing; a sweet thing, a pure thing. plush fur shaded with dapples of silver. he does not finish his original sentence.
from deep in his chest a buttery laugh ripples. he blinks, his head shaking before he picks himself up; a softness now painted across pinpricked eyes. rough night. yes, yes, a rough night. you remind me of my daughter.