The person — beast, being, shape, figure — looming over the volcra corpses moved closer, out of the dark tree-line and into the light emanating from her hands. And as he drew closer, she could tell that he was, indeed, a man: but he was pale from years spent in these pitch-black woods, and his eyes were coal-black, and the veins in his throat stood out like ink. Blood dripped on the leaves and the cloak whispered across the forest floor as he limped closer to her. He flexed his hands and the claws retracted.
(A man, but not entirely human, then.)
When the demon spoke, his voice sounded cracked and dusty, raw like he hadn't used it for a long, long time.
"You are not meant to be here." He didn't sound angry, just stating a flat fact. He wavered on his feet, watching Alina's movement as she tore her own cloak into bandages. "The woods— they're dangerous."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(A man, but not entirely human, then.)
When the demon spoke, his voice sounded cracked and dusty, raw like he hadn't used it for a long, long time.
"You are not meant to be here." He didn't sound angry, just stating a flat fact. He wavered on his feet, watching Alina's movement as she tore her own cloak into bandages. "The woods— they're dangerous."