Sun Mote Copse When I dream, I’m doing you all night

The reaper doesn’t smell his company — doesn’t see them either. Rather, he’s quite surprised to hear the voice that seems to materialize out of nowhere. His ruined ears shift this way and that, silvery orbs shift up from their downwards position on the ground to the trees around him. Where and who? He wonders. 

With his head still level with his shoulders, he stills. Turning his head in the direction he believes the voice comes from. He sees nothing. A passive thought sidles through his mind: am I finally going senile? He’s getting older and it shows by the grey blooming over his chin and whiskers. He’s still in good shape though, the bulk of his muscle is still there and his wits are still about him, as is his prowess for battle, but he’s growing old nonetheless. 

So the two toned male hums back a sound of acknowledgment and wonder. It’s deep and indifferent sounding as he looks about.

“¿Hablan los árboles? ¿O hay alguien allí?” He says mostly to himself, but loud enough for this mystery person to hear him. Nonetheless, he entertains the mystery voice. “I’m exploring. Who speaks?” He finally says gruffly, words lightly slurred by a thick Hispanic accent.