we scream our very souls free
Haunt is many things, but a creature of habit is not one of them. To an outsider, it would seem there is no rhyme nor reason to the way in which the shadow chooses to live their life. In truth, there is not much of one. They go precisely where whim dictates, in a manner that can often only be considered pleasing to a creature like Haunt.
By that same token, Haunt’s thoughts are rarely eaten by worry or concern. They have emotion of course, as do most living things - in their own way. But Haunt is not nearly so bothered by it as others assume they should be. But at the end of the day, there are a few who stir a response from the shadow. A very precious few.
On today, a clear, warm summer day in which the birds chirp a bit too brightly and flowers bloom a mite too sweetly, Haunt is startled from a silent reverie. They cannot be certain what had spoken to them, but they are certain they will investigate. Under normal circumstances, the bright hours of mid-morning into early afternoon are for clinging to the darkest and deepest shadows of the woods. For sleeping, if they ever actually slept. But shadows do not sleep and neither does Haunt.
When the whisper comes, it floats on familiar tones of colliding memories. Children playing, a dark and sinful cave with the sweet sounds of babbling water. Misfit. One of the precious few. It is only then that Haunt realizes how very long it has been since his voice had graced their ears.
So Haunt, ever given to whimsy, to the moment, sets out to find their wayward and missing step-brother. It should not have been hard, but something clings around the edges of where he should be, hiding him from the world. From Haunt. Which will most certainly not do.
Haunt has never retreated from a challenge, nor would the shadow now. So they do the very opposite of what good sense demands and delve into the most dangerous parts of the wood. The deepest and blackest places where fell creatures roam. But Haunt is a fell creature, belonging to the deepest and darkest as they do. There is nothing here to frighten a toothy and lawless shadow.
When the creature finally arrives in the meadow, clinging to the heaviest shadows cast in the late-morning light, only yellow eyes gleam from the darkness to betray their presence. Perhaps Misfit does not notice, or perhaps he does. But he must certainly notice when his name rings across the meadow in clear, melodic tones. “Misfiiiiittt.” A pause, a smile, sharp black teeth invisible against the shadow. “Did you get lost?”
@[Misfit]