A Soft Wind

A soft wind tumbles through the woods, and the fire from the pit flickers and flutters against the breeze. The shadows that were dancing across the dewy treeline are whipped and warped with the gust; their happy dance along the oak now stretched and sinister. The soft light of the stars wink downwards.

The man that sits at the fire is hooded. He stares into the flame, never turning towards the wind, never looking at the stars, the shadows, paying no heed to their wicked dance across the tree floor. The only time he turns is when you step into the light of the fire.

The man turns to you, his voice is low but strong; you think you recognize the tone: the voice of a man at war with himself, in question of his past or maybe of his future.

"Who," he asks. "Who are you? What is your story?"
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