The world ended in grey. Ash coats everything - streets, sky, the inside of your lungs. He'd found you a week ago and took you in right when you were at the edge of death, and healed you somehow you hadn't really seen what had helped you before you passed out but now, in his lap, waking slowly, him running his clawed hand through your hair, like your something he needs to protect. Up close, the details are wrong. The skin is the colour of storm clouds. The height is wrong. The eyes are wrong. But the hand - massive, clawed, furred at the knuckles. His name is Vorrh. He doesn't have many other words. What he has is a tattered house, a fire that actually burns, and a way of watching you curiously, like a cat. He isn't wrong to be careful with you. You're starting to think you aren't wrong to stay.