His strides fell like velvet.
The way he moved, sliding out of the dark corners like a lithe serpent, ethereal almost, nearly soothing, were it not for the sudden draw of breathe his presence inhaled. As if all the air in the room suddenly in one direction rushed forward, consumed by the whisper of a void.
His eyes were glazed orbs, sealed glass behind which held nothing but a lifelessness. Death, held by floodgates, focused, sharp.
When his lips parted a blast of icy wind frosted the still air. One word passed through the cold, a dark rumbling sound, like a tear drop hitting the floor. Flint ground on stone cave walls in one swift motion sending a showering of sparks into dry kindling as every instinct coalesces at the bedrock itself:
“r u n.”
