log: cemetery - revenant and misha
What a terrible cliche, dead man walking in a cemetery. When his white face revealed itself through the haze surrounding Misha, it was as an almost floating shape, body clad as it was in black, as usual.
The cemetery prickled and flushed with something live and awake, something holy, perhaps. He was no expert - he hardly knew himself, let alone other creatures, but he could sense what was and what was not. He could touch people and things and learn their secrets, and the air sometimes told him secrets too. The air in the cemetery spoke of death and holy light. He could taste it on his tongue, cold and quiet, and on the approach.
He hadn't come hunting for Misha. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, yet again, when the cemetery glowed with warmth and the memories of a war. Chitinous claws clicked at his sides, and he lingered close-by, then a little closer, looking wide-eyed for signs of the aggressor, the source of the clean, bright, bleached-white feeling that had come as walls of mist went up in the graveyard.
He didn't fear the scions of death. He knew, he knew that they could not take him, and whether it was true or not, he knew it all the same.