He whispers to me of madness. He comes clothed with darkness and death, the heavy scent of musk and leaf rot. Fresh death in His eyes. There is rage just below the surface and it seems to short circuit every now and again. There’s palpable tension and the colour of His eyes will flicker, to darkness and back. He keeps His distance…sort of. Right now He moves in silence mostly, not because He doesn’t speak but because it’s as if someone has turned on mute. I catch flickers of sound, as if the silence is a wind that dies down. There is the scent of fire, the heat from the bonfire in front of me and behind Him. He wears…robes? And skins and bones. Almost like a Shaman; The armour that I always associate with Him is there underneath but the metal has turned to leather. His…mojo?…is building, He is getting ready.
I apologize to the owners of the images, I don’t have the spoons to get each link. I searched “the wild hunt” on Google Images.