( If you ask him, he's not convinced anyone anywhere has a happy life. Happy lives are a myth, a fantasy — or, at the very least, they belong to exceedingly wealthy hermits who don't subject themselves to things like society or other people. He's never met a single happy person in his fucking life.

Well, except for his brother, but that fucker's hollow on the inside and breeds enough unhappiness in his wake that he hardly counts.

That she doesn't puff foggy air on her breaths hasn't occurred to him yet. Something itches at his mind, the sight and sensation something he can't put his finger on — the way she radiates no heat under his arm, the way she doesn't fog the air. Details too subtle to stand out, but significant enough for his mind to register as wrong. Mayhaps it'll come to him later. )

What's this Darkwalker supposed to be? Man? Animal? Have you tried cleaving it off at the neck? Tends to solve most problems.