Residing as a common shadow to a figurine shrouded in mists, thin, bone-like fingers tearing holes into a skin that is bleeding with repairs clearly underway. Death becomes an endless shadow to one that lives for that certain fix of bloodlust. Vision blurred and sights became erratic; he falls, or begins to. Infection? Clearly. A child can be born soon to carry his bloodline. Natural causes in a harsh environment, all too normal for a dying soul.
Breathing has been regained shortly, coming in bursts as his lungs try not to lose what reality is been taken. The Unknown lingers within shadows, fading in and out of reality, leaving the white soul coexisting with a monster to within a departure that comes fast. By now, it's a sure thing he'll die if no one cares to save him.
He remains without fear, never speaking much. Someone would save him, at some point.
In this place, the thoughts are souls sweeping inside the flames that rise and fall in Hell; they're there, he knows. He knows that he can use them as he pleases as his torturer tries to leave dying wishes. Fingers cannot reach them, instead that float about within conversation to try to revive him. Life finds a way, though life is a cruel mistress who wants to see you suffer each and everyday.
'Are you still breathing?' Yes..... 'Are you feeling that?' Yes. "Do you like your corpses?" Silence becomes a sweeping nightmare across the moving corpse that lays broken and battered in his skull. The walls have chips that are healing with his neck, slow but occurring. A heartbeat acts as a distant lullaby. It soothes and calms, his green eyes glowing even in daylight now. They've gotten brighter with the fix of death, coming from the blood that soaks him. Everything is fuzzy before a voice can break quiet, sunlight a knife stabbed into the chest of a murderer's innocent victim. What word fixes into his brain is the word 'nightmare.' Sadly, this explains his current position.
Here is a nightmare: the deads done wrong, a wound recieved that will probably kill him later on. For a child that may be born with it's first memory of a father being a moving, bloodly corpse, then that's a slingshotted movement towards the finish line that registers you as completely fucked up. Surely, his kiddo wasn't going to care about its father looking that way at the birth.
A voice can carry an owner, though in the times at the Steppe after Luneia and his tango, there were voices that didn't carry an owner. Scinfaxi's and The Unknown's broke off into a corpse that they recreated for him, beckoning him to arrive to that sane part of his mind where he could be stabbed numberous times and pass away without making warning. Instead, he enjoyed laying in reality, breathing with his chest rising in and falling with a sickening fashion. It moves like his ribs are broken, clearly nothing more than just an extremely sad sight.
Life will carry a noise, his groans of pain that follow with attempts to move, trying to accept a spur of sanity that could leave him something worth talking to. He'll go back into insanity at a later point, the lack of blood flow in his veins probably creating this odd scenario. He excepts Luneia, her fat, pregnant ass waddling in with a mouthful of sass and telling him to speak. They didn't even know each other's names, and she was having his kid. Maybe in her hateful way to him can he accept her love, though hateful and probably not even there.
Every piece shatters at the idea of even loving a soul. It's just not possible, it's not expected to happen. She hates him, he remains void of emotion. Nothing lives there.
His eyes move with movement that is less abnormal and more realistic, his sanity taking pieces here and there while the transparent walls repair themselves. He can always catch something moving, his single ear limp and lifeless. If it was to fall off, he'd never notice. What he does notice, is strange in a dark way that he resides in naturally. The night took things from him and added them in, the fresh return of sunlight a snapping point. He'll be normal again soon.
What has come across him is a single winged mare, a bird flashing about her. His attention lingers, curiousity a stomach churning emotion that the body rejects. Pain shifts through his wound placed upon his neck, the layers of black mane shorter now. He cannot remember where it is, but he removed locks at some time ago.
It'll come back. It always does.
"H... H.. Hell.... Hello?"

OOC: I'm fine with you kicking me out if you want. There is an excess of muse for him that needed draining, and I thought his short spur of sanity could be a bit interesting here.

P.S. It's wonderful to have you back. <3 I hope everything is doing fine with your personal life and all.

"talk talk talk"