promises, promises
The abandoned shirt lies at the edge of the treeline like a thrown gauntlet, his path light but unmistakably marked. Twisting and winding, branches deliberately broken, sometimes a tree rubbed against to leave scent behind -- he can be a terrible student when it's a matter of willpower versus desire -- the path leads deep. He's crouched against the trunk of a tree, one hand playing with the button of his jeans, the other stroking the silver knife along his bottom lip very lightly.