‘What is this, this Little thing, that wanders into mine home?’

The figure on the river’s edge said nothing, remaining seated on the smooth, stone shore. The forest whispered with the breath of wind, leaves scattering in the Dusk. Boughs creaked above the forest floor, announcing the arrival of the Herald.

‘Of all things, mayhap they desire mine pity,’ a voice murmured as it drifted between the trees. ‘Alas, my stock is quite paltry. I offer no forgiveness, for shameless sins.’

The figure kneeling upon the rock gave no answer.

‘The shroud of innocence hides naught from my sight, Wanderer in White,’ the voice continued, taking on tones of amusement. ‘None but Man, that shameless breed, are bold enough to summon me.’

The forest grew restless, the wind roused from its idle stillness. Between the creaking trees, a shadow flew, with all the weight of the tide of night. The sentinels of old, stiff in their oaken age, could not help but bow before the Herald’s passage.

Ethereal in transit, monstrous in arrival, the shadow shed its dark cloak. A creature of night, a creature of might, it crept forward with savage grace. Stones shattered beneath its clawed tread, branches snapping like twine. Its hardened skin like ash and bone, it stalked towards the entity foreign to its home.

‘I’ve heard many a cry,’ the Herald rasped, breath gusting past fangs uncounted, ‘in times past, like these leaves cast aside. Yet never one such as this, so simple in verse, a cry to “hear me” plain. Like a child bereft and set adrift, doomed to be ever found wanting.’ The Herald closed on the Wanderer’s back, and loosed an unearthly chuckle. ‘Well hear me now, Wanderer in White, mine ears are thine to tease. What games might ease the hours’ passing, for indeed, there are games I’d like to play…’