Sif did not want to steal anything from a human unless he had to; he wanted his own body, even if he could not have his own voice. He spent much time thinking about it, trying to roll the idea around in his head, guessing at how to construct one.

Most of the wicked things he killed were distorted and warped, animals that had stolen human parts or things that had once been human before melding with dark magics. Could it not go the other way, then, that if he comported himself in a decent way, that he could have a decent form?

He feared that the faybane miasma would twist him, and after rooting out as many spirits as he could, descended from the cursed lands.

While he still wanted to avoid civilization, he found himself walking down a path that he knew; it was not to his village, or to Híebard, not even to Cwge. He could not place how he knew it.

He was surprised to see a peasant woman, carrying a basket as she strolled down the path. She was the first person he had seen in years besides the goldenhaired priest- and upon seeing him, she screamed, nearly dropping her basket, and ran off.

" Father! Father! You were right! I'll never doubt you again!" she cried, puzzling Sif. He had looked over himself quite thoroughly when grooming his fur, wanting to make sure he was presentable and hadn't grown any wicked bits anywhere, and knew that he looked like a normal black cat.

As it was nearing dusk, he became a little tired, and slowed his walk to look for somewhere to sleep. There was an overgrown path, nearly hidden by new growth trees. He had known such paths to lead to abandoned houses while he was wandering, and figured he may as well take it. At worst, he could sleep beneath a bush or in the roots of a tree.

The overgrown path led back a ways, and Sif became overwhelmed by an eerie feeling, like he was in a place he once knew that had changed.

Around him, there were burned foundations, and as he walked, he could feel the fur down the length of his spine stand on end. He did know this place. It called him, a memory so old and weak he had nearly discarded it, like the twinge in his back leg.

A line of old, makeshift graves circled along the abandoned village.

He remembered which house he should go to, remembered what it had looked like, the warm hearth and packed dirt floor, the thatched roof, the blankets and furs...

He curled up to sleep where the bed once stood, recalling the comfort of his strange thing's embrace.

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