PEREGRINE.

        It’s not too difficult to predict what will         probably  happen  to  this  girl  with  a  SPRING         in her step...  not when the forest is this dense.

       “Be careful, those branches are---- !

        HE DOESN’T FEEL LIKE TALKING, not to him, not to anyone, ever, but there were words stuck in his throat. FEELINGS long gone forcing themselves into his VISAGE. Anger BOILING hot guides him as he strides to the front, towering over the BOY as if he could make him disappear just by INTIMIDATING him. 

                                                            “I AM.”

        “B-But that doesn’t make any sense, Greg, Greg is----”

        Another step back and his words catch on his throat, the seed of doubt slowly sinking its roots into his mind. What is real, what is not; was his return but a DREAM ? Never has he ever imagined himself in this state...

           THE VOICE ONLY CONFIRMS HIS FEARS, even after years of walking these woods alone he can identify the voice that talked back to him from his POETRY tapes. Foolish pastimes of a boy still carrying his innocence. The MIRAGE cannot see him, not yet for he is CLOUDED by the darkness he oh so expertly twists to cover himself. Unsure what approach he should take, how to REVEAL himself to this.. to this THING he lifts the shade from his eyes, and stares, unyielding. 

         He can feel all his hair standing on end, barely capable of keeping himself from shuddering at the sight of those eyes, wide and GLOWING with the same eerie light that greets him in his worst nightmares. Despite them being the first thing he sees, it doesn’t take anything else to get him to give a step back, FEAR morphing into CONFUSION then INCREDULITY once he focuses on the features peering at him from behind a tree.

         “That’s impossible, you...

             limboic

THE FOOTSTEPS ARE FAMILIAR, && he has to look down at his own feet to make sure they weren’t his. No, they were too lighthearted.. not enough mass on them, they weren’t HIS. Well, all and all they were someones and he needed to know who it was, if he could.. use them in any way. && so his legs take tim to the sound, silent as always, just to see a mirage of times long past. Forcing him to make a noise of distress. W H Y WAS HE HERE

          The wall had yet again managed to drag him into a reality he so desperately crawled out from the last time; leaving him ( a poet, a CHILD not as innocent as the one that unwillingly discovered this place ) alone to wander the woods. Which he would have... if the landscape around him wasn’t so horribly familiar. There are memories he’d rather forget, like those of a hurried escape and a brief embrace with death herself; cold seeping through his clothes into his very bones. And so his steps come to a halt, reminiscing; a haze that only disappears after the sound of ( what appears to be ) a TWIG snapping reaches his ears. Paranoia takes over, and his neck almost hurts due to how fast he turns towards the sound, squinting as if hoping to find an answer in the darkness. Perhaps asking is foolish, but so is coming here ALONE.

              “ FROGS…..? Do you….like                    them THAT much —- ? “