Haunted Wood red dot

erebos slips through trees with breath low and baited. the scent of prey lingered, and he sought to follow. patience was the hunter’s blade.

paws pressing firm into damp earth, leaving heavy tracks in the frost. ears flicking, listening. the forest breathed around him—branches creaking, distant rustle of movement. nothing close. not yet.

he exhales, mist curling from his nose. scents were layered—old trails, fading prints. he filters through them, picking apart the freshest thread.

After her and Periane’s encounter with the pale boy from the plains, Hemera sought solitude. She wandered far, beyond the Great Lake, until she stumbled upon a peculiar forest, an expanse of tangled limbs and towering trees.
She moved with measured steps, her willowy frame gliding through the narrow passages between trunks. Though her body no longer held the strength it once did, it would suffice.
Then, a shadow. A dark figure lingered in the distance, just beyond her reach. She stilled, her presence betrayed by the rustling of branches as she passed. A sigh, quiet but sharp. There was no use hiding now. With deliberate movements, Hemera lowered her muzzle to groom her sand-streaked fur, plucking away the twigs that clung to her like unwelcome guests. Wandering through the wilds had its costs, but she would not wear the forest’s filth upon her. Nor would she rest upon damp earth or frost-bitten ground. Even here, she kept her grace.

erebos watched. he: a shadow within shadows. the tangled forest clung to her, marking her as an outsider. his kind left no trace.
he saw the way her body existed. delicate, but not weak. measured. careful.
his breath rasped and began curling in the cold. she had noticed him. didn’t run. didn’t speak. instead, she groomed, pulling twigs from her fur with a care.
he stepped forward, just enough for the light to catch the scars along his throat. he could not speak, only make gurgling, feral noises—but if he could, maybe he would have considered telling her she was beautiful.

The sandwoman stilled, her grooming forgotten as the very shadow itself seemed to take shape before her. Hemera's plum gaze lifted from beneath dark lashes, meeting the amber glow that pierced through the dim light. Her breath hitched, though not out of fear; no, it was something far more ancient that stirred within her chest: awe.
When he stepped into the light, her eyes traced the scars that marred his throat, an old wound that stole the voice from him. And yet, Hemera needed no words to understand a soul. Slowly, she tilted her head, blinking languidly, a soft and knowing gesture. With graceful steps, she closed the distance between them, raising a delicate paw toward his throat, though she did not dare make contact.
„The Lord has taken your voice,” she murmured, her tone a mere breath against the cold spring air that brushed through her sand-painted fur. A shiver ran along her spine, though whether from the chill or the strange pull she felt toward this wraith of a man, she could not say.
And so, Hemera lingered; for the Lord does not place souls upon one's path without reason.