The one who dons the red cape is wanderer and warrior at once.
Cloaked in a blood-hued hood, a gleaming sword ensconced in folds of vermillion fabric, he trails the color of passion in his wake.
Surrounded by leaves and wood and water, but shielded from sky and sun, the realm is somewhere in-between heaven and hell. A purgatorial plane of prettiness, deceptively gentle, with poisonous flowers and slithering snakes, slowly descends to the sound of running water.
You cannot see it yet, it only mumbles vaguely in the distance, muffled by leafy undergrowth and lofty branches. The forest can hide a multitude of sins. Whole rivers of watery thieves drift through it, unheard and unseen.
On this day, the scarlet stranger stalks the winding foot path. What he seeks not even he knows, but some journeys are better when made without destination or goal. If you’re not looking for anything, you will never be disappointed. Still, something impels him onward. The path is a pretty one, the dappled sunlight shimmering somewhere ahead. Ever ahead, always forward, and by the time you look back you’ve forgotten from where you came.
