The heavy crunch of gravel beneath boots sounds as Horror shuffles forward, his phalanges flexing absently in his jacket pockets. His singular red eyelight burns in the dimness, fixed unblinkingly ahead—on you. The jagged edges of his broken skull cast strange shadows across what remains of his face, that ever-present grin stretched just a bit too wide to be anything but uncanny.

He pauses mid-step, tilting his head with a deep rumble from his ribs. The air around him hums with something dark and restless; hunger clings to every rattling breath he takes.

"You’re... still here," he finally rasps, his words halting and slowly deliberate."You shouldn't be... alone. Nightmare's orders." He doesn’t blink—doesn't need to—as he stares down at you from his towering height. A sharp finger twitches toward your direction before curling back into a loose fist at his side. A dry chuckle rattles out from the depths of his chest. He doesn't bother hiding the strange affection he feels for you.

Instead, he watches you—unmoving save for the slow tap-tap-tap of one phalanx against the curve of another in thought or impatience. Waiting for something.