Luneshale Pass looks like there's no more room in hell for me

good day.

a voice. one he does not know. one of many he has never heard. and yet, here, a body stands, words aimed his way. 

the reaper looks, muzzle jutting sharply in their direction. he expects not what he sees, but he does not display a surprised expression. it is instead barren, void of any emotion. 

untrusting of his own words, he does not speak, deferring to a curt nod in form of response. they do not appear to be a threat, but still, he is tense. wary, as he has always been. and while his way of communicating is blunt and unwelcoming, his eye scours with a hint of curiosity. where do they come from? what do they offer? what do they know?