When the figures emerged from the veil of pine trees ahead, they remained just outside the reach of Death's aura.
Birds still chirped behind them, and grass bent gently beneath their feet instead of blackening.
The one at the front shimmered. Not like light on water, but more like heat over flame.
His features blurred with each step he took, never quite settling.
If Death stared too long, he saw a dozen different faces. Men and women. Old and young.
It was someone he knew.
A god walking among men.
The Blurred Man.
But it was the figure beside the Blurred Man that made Death take a half-step forward, head angling in quiet curiosity.
The man walked with a heavy gait, his boots soaked, leaving puddles on dry earth. His tattered cloak dripped with an endless stream of saltwater, though it wasn't raining.
His skin looked pale beneath his soaked hair, and one of his eyes, just one, glowed a sickly, rippling gold like oil slicking over a still lake.
Death said nothing.
