who we are and all that we're trying to be
With the ban on the Greatwood lifted, the Reaper took an opportunity to return to his roots, to his comforts, bending over into curiosity, exploration, and conniving. The beast yearned for a day without politics, without insurrection, without meddling gossip, or some range of diplomacy he was unsuited for – just a few stark moments out in the wilderness, biding his time, plotting and reeling for a hunt. It was immensely satisfying to linger on the strands and fringes of the unknown for a second or two, leaning out into the chilling wind, pressing his senses into something other than the latest disaster or demise; a warrior and his sword, his bow, only the movements, the motions, the notions of savagery tucked into his mind.
The autumn cold reached into his skin and plucked at his senses, alive, invigorated; breathing in the sharp recoil and defying it with his bestial inclinations. He threaded his way through the labyrinthine quality of the woods themselves; eyes catching on a few mingling will-o-wisps and turning from their lantern lights, meandering down paths with silent footsteps, quick, solid, and stoic. The dawn light rustled between leaves and boughs, and it was an ethereal, otherworldly connotation, painted in vivid hues, blending the prey he sought into its landscape.
But that was fine. He was feral, but not impatient. This day was composure, for control, for all the things he’d lost along the way.
He chose a lower spot amidst the brush and bramble, tucking himself down behind a rock, a monolith hidden behind another Colossus, one of his own nature, and grabbed hold of the bow tucked along his back. With any luck, a deer would come by, and he’d be able to loosen one or two from his quiver, and arrive back home with enough meat for several days – a furtive stockpile for the coming hours and seasons.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
