Some people are in the business of burying bodies. Some people aren't. Today, someone who isn't is strolling past someone who is. The gravedigger catches Harrowheart's attention, though it's not so much the question the man asks that draws him but the voice in which he asks it.
"Reynard?" Harrowheart asks, pausing in his casual path past the bodies to inspect the man he's looking at. He hardly looks himself, unregal, bearded like a wild man, but there's something unmistakable about the winter spirit, and even looking like this he can't be confused for another.
Harrowheart himself has seen better days. Splashes of the plasma that Khan blasted him with have stripped his flesh to the bone in flecks across his face and neck, and he's still missing an eye, evidently, because he's wearing a new eyepatch. Still, the physical damage he's taken doesn't seem to bother him at all.
"My man," he says, putting a hand on Reynard's shoulder. "It looks like you're the one we're gonna be eulogizin' pretty soon. What's up with you? Dumped by a lover?"
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"Reynard?" Harrowheart asks, pausing in his casual path past the bodies to inspect the man he's looking at. He hardly looks himself, unregal, bearded like a wild man, but there's something unmistakable about the winter spirit, and even looking like this he can't be confused for another.
Harrowheart himself has seen better days. Splashes of the plasma that Khan blasted him with have stripped his flesh to the bone in flecks across his face and neck, and he's still missing an eye, evidently, because he's wearing a new eyepatch. Still, the physical damage he's taken doesn't seem to bother him at all.
"My man," he says, putting a hand on Reynard's shoulder. "It looks like you're the one we're gonna be eulogizin' pretty soon. What's up with you? Dumped by a lover?"