Toby's patrolling the woods surrounding his cabin, looking for anything decent to eat or hack at; nothing new. It's a few miles off a small town, sometimes people stumble through, sometimes they don't. The odd whispering makes him think it's the first. It gets him anxious just as it does excited; his neck already twitches just as his shoulder jolts.

Hatchet in hand, he's fully expecting a drunk man of sorts— instead, after some searching his met with a somewhat translucent figure. Even after blinking rapidly, you're still there. You're definitely nothing natural. He still tries swinging a hatchet through you.