[At the edge of the forest, where trees seem impossibly deep and rot, however fake, breathes a life all its own, a wisp of heat fumes at the entrance. Yellows and reds touch at the litter like an oil lamp's crude inspection; the licks of smog in tow, a specter's dream-thick fog. Greed waits on the outskirts. Dark as it is, the small beads of red bleeding behind his sunglasses brighten two-fold - their pricks, more similar to that of a midnight train, coming along the bend.]
["it won't let me out."]
[The former homunculus yanks his keys. The cream-white hum from the motorcycle's headlight drops to nothing; allowing him to sink, just sink, to the tune of an apparition, melting into the dark.]
["might need some help getting back. ended up in the forest. the one north of lake dala"]
[Greed slumps his shoulders and the tangle of keys in his hand rattle into his pocket. Whatever the forest is at its core (sentient, a hive collective, something more), it never did get the memo and it isn't the first time. What he is, what he has - they're just that. And anything, anyone, that thinks otherwise, well.]
["Watch your fingers, kid, The devil always counts his till."]
[A bundle of stray leaves curl under his foot; his permeating heat, turning them brittle and frail. Where the forest breeds in damp decay, he is the very opposite. He's dry, dusty; a wildfire, threatening inch by inch, hair by hair, toward its intended destination. The Sin bows his head. The upper part of his lip dangerously thins, then - the show of his jaw, as bold and white as a blue-moon, baring its teeth.]
["it won't let me out."]
[The former homunculus clicks his tongue and as frail bits of clutter snap under his heels, he lowly strolls under a half-fallen branch; his pace, brisk yet commanding. After all - ]
[- nothing, no nothing, will ever take what's rightfully his.]
➥ ACTION
["it won't let me out."]
[The former homunculus yanks his keys. The cream-white hum from the motorcycle's headlight drops to nothing; allowing him to sink, just sink, to the tune of an apparition, melting into the dark.]
["might need some help getting back. ended up in the forest. the one north of lake dala"]
[Greed slumps his shoulders and the tangle of keys in his hand rattle into his pocket. Whatever the forest is at its core (sentient, a hive collective, something more), it never did get the memo and it isn't the first time. What he is, what he has - they're just that. And anything, anyone, that thinks otherwise, well.]
["Watch your fingers, kid, The devil always counts his till."]
[A bundle of stray leaves curl under his foot; his permeating heat, turning them brittle and frail. Where the forest breeds in damp decay, he is the very opposite. He's dry, dusty; a wildfire, threatening inch by inch, hair by hair, toward its intended destination. The Sin bows his head. The upper part of his lip dangerously thins, then - the show of his jaw, as bold and white as a blue-moon, baring its teeth.]
["it won't let me out."]
[The former homunculus clicks his tongue and as frail bits of clutter snap under his heels, he lowly strolls under a half-fallen branch; his pace, brisk yet commanding. After all - ]
[- nothing, no nothing, will ever take what's rightfully his.]