A raw red scar winds sinuously around his pale throat, evidence of some past trauma that lowers the register of his voice until it's a mere rasp that should induce images of raw primal rutting, yet brings a cold sweat to your palms and underarms and the delicate area behind your cock, as if your body recognizes the danger before your civilized mind can comprehend it.
Here is Predator, not prey.
Blood and magic and sorrow are an odoriferous miasma haloing his body, the stink of human frailty in your nose, and you know you'll never forget it.
Or him.
His eyes lift to yours, and you recoil away from the rotted soul staring back at you. You know now what he is. He is one of the Sheared, a creature of such pity and disgust among your people, it is taboo to look upon them.
You hesitate, however, to look through him as one does the wandering dead. You've run far from your hill-clan, away from their supersititions and myths to hew your own path, and so you don't bow your neck to his agony, but instead invite it into your home as you open your door to him.
He stills for a moment, his bare feet cracked and soiled with dust from the road he's walked, then steps across your threshold into the home you built upon the backs of your dreams. As he brushes past you, you wait for the chill of the grave to touch you, yet his flesh is still warm.
How can that be?
You don't realize you've spoken your thoughts aloud until that voice responds, a slight smile barely moving slack lips.
I am not dead, he protests lowly, I'm just half-way there.
A beat of silence passes before you understand you were supposed to laugh at his gallows humor. He shakes his head as he reads your realization upon your face.
It's not funny if I have to explain it.
He sits. He sits at the same table you break your fast and consume your dinner, and you force away the instinctive protest. What good is it to speak out against tradition if you can't practice what you've preached?
You're welcome to stay the night.
Incredulity is apparently the only expression his face is able to make, and you shift nervously, your pant legs brushing against each other in the (somehow) loud silence.
You would allow me to stay, afraid of me as you are?
You feel embarassed he was able to discern your feelings, and you try to protest against them but still your words when he just looks at you. He is obviously someone of power because he makes you want to bare your belly to him as if you were an animal instead of the reasoning two legged person you (like to think you) are.
You have wandered far and it would be inhospitable not to share what I have.
It is a diplomatic response to him and he knows it, another small smile turning his lips upward even as no emotion touches the decay in his dark eyes.
Ah yes, your people pride themselves on hospitality. I accept.
The ritual complete, you set out the food you'd prepared for one, and offer him first bite and he shakes his head once in negation claiming no hunger. You can see his bones pressing against his travel-stained clothing and the hollowed cheeks, and you know he is hungry but not for anything mortal or living. He has lasted longer than you've ever heard of (never seen since you have always turned away before) and you wonder. Wondering is taboo too so you don't ask the questions burning your lips.
He knows, however, as he watches you consume the life given up for your repast.
I have an obligation and once I've discharged it, I will rest.
You nod, your food stuck in your throat at the subtle threat woven through his simple words. Death is sitting at your table and you know it.
Despite your trepidation, you offer your single bed as it would shame you if he slept on the floor. He accepts as he understands the rules of your society, and you lay down before the fire, wary with him at your back. There is no other light now, except for the one lit for warmth, and your eyesight cannot pierce the gloom. You don't think you could fall into sleep's embrace, yet the morning is streaming through your window when you are next aware.
You are alone with nothing to show you ever had a guest for the evening.
Shuddering with more than the winter's cold, you rise and try to put yourself arights, before venturing into the village as your wont each day.
Once you step outside your door, you are struck dumb at the wasteland that meets your eyes. The small village with the pretty girls who smile at you and the brawny boys who tame the land lay dead, their homes still smouldering in the sun. The sickly sweet odor of cooked flesh is strong in your nose, though nothing can overpower the scent of the man who came to you last night.
A sudden cracking sound startles you from your horrified thoughts and you automatically scan the area until you see a lone pole settled in the middle of the devastation. The sound is a small rectangle unfurling in a whirling breeze.
Upon the red cloth, so reminscent of blood freshly spilled, is a black mark shaped like a wolf's paw.