Witch's Marsh prorsus

Ico became still, and watched with wide-eyes as the stranger noticed him and approached. Perhaps it would be wise for a small, lone thing like Ico to flee, but he was never one to flee — never. Not because he was some bold and precarious wayfarer (because he really wasn't), but because he was too curious, always far too curious to flee.

The man reminded him, irresistibly and outlandishly, of the Broken Boulder. Ico would later suppose it was his grandness, his stony expression, and the unsolved puzzle guarded by his cold grey exterior. And while there was a simple command in his words, there was something else to them — it was as if he wanted to incorporate Ico into this moment. But why? Ico was only Ico.

And Ico really was no hunter.

But because of the curiosity that bound him to this Earth and to this moment, the wide eyes blinked, and he nodded, but the young storyteller was silent, ready to remain so and to simply follow the stranger's beckoning lead.