[And the touch that lingers here is so old, now. Old and faded, belonging to a him that had barely begun to cherish what was here before it was gone.


Deeper now, the mist is cool and thick against his senses. Streaks of darkness and flickers of sickly green energy linger at the edge of his vision, waiting and watching and there, still, to be called on at need. His path alone remains clear, the odd cornflower blooming still between those old, weathered footprints.

Further on, close now. He's almost there.]