[Following, almost. He's stopped in the middle of the path, one hand-shape turned palm-forward, as if wanting to run its fingers through something. He takes a few steps forward, stretching out his hand, but the sunlight won't touch him. The scene itself won't touch him: at a distance of about a foot from his shape the grass and the sun and the heavy golden mist start to crumble away from him until it seems he's standing in a morning meadow surrounded by a forest at night. He doesn't seem surprised about it. Just moves slow, staring around him.]
I didn't ask where you hunt. I asked where you lived. Wherever was home for all of you. Was it beautiful?
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I didn't ask where you hunt. I asked where you lived. Wherever was home for all of you. Was it beautiful?