Though he has resided here for a lengthy amount of time, several nights and unknown count of days, he shall not be around when the sparkings of Frostfall kick in and take over the land. In the year prior to this one, he'd lost an ear in the snowdrifts, bound to cold air as it went across the earth is a spine chilling motion. It came in so face that he was never prepared, and soon he may wander northward to the Frostbreath Steppe and fade out with the dancing lights that take over the night sky there. He must find a settled and a collected soul before he faces his consquences.
Scinfaxi stands beside him, blurred as an object will do if it rests far to the weak strength of his eyes. His mental companion is beside him. Both are speaking though there was are no words exchanged with the movement of blood stained lips. Each green eye is glazed in glass and shut beneath lock and key of leather and steel. The weezing noises that the mask produces with each breath looms over the silence of night like a bat's shadow across moonlit ground.
'Are you content with your previous actions? Have the things you have produced pleased you or are you looking for more purpose to your life? Do you need more blood upon your hands in order for you to make room in the world for your presence?' No. 'And to which question does that answer to?' “Sacks of flesh are approaching; take care of them and we shall let you pass through this night without much more bother.” ‘That is an unhealthy bargain you’re giving there.’ Yes. ‘Who are you speaking to this time?’
Dust is blown across their voices within his walls of bone and diseased brain, decaying with the sounds of scalpeled teeth tearing into such precious flesh. It nibbles upon his mind, tasting and trying to figure out which part of his mental state is going to be the most satisfying to ruin tonight. Moonlight brings out his shape from beneath a tree. There is a faint visionary blur of a memory of this tree that says it was used as a light when the night made itself comfortable and refused to leave for almost two seasons. Though he lacks a sense of time, flowing the change of weather to know what time of year it is, he knows that the weather went from cold to hot in the time that the night was there.
Inside that night, pieces of him changed. Bones came through his skin and he became a faded drape thrown across a skeleton laying atop the earth. You could walk up beside him and count his ribs, trace the outline of his hip bones, and see the tired expression that haunted a mask skull where the coat was all and thin pieces of meat were keeping you from running greedy fingers tipped with curiosity across the lines that show the defined portions of his heavy head. One ear on the right tops the man off, a scar that becomes a hole at the location of the previous ear.
While you inspect the rest of his body that is turning into a corpse, the real living dead, right before your horrified eyes, you never see the scar that rips down the left side of his neck that is outlined with blood that carries a racid scent. Blood patterns his front legs, black lips hiding teeth used in the profession of murder, and a pool of dried blood caked to him at his shoulder blades. He has yet to wander out of his hiding place to bathe and wash the sins off of him.
’Please do pay attention to your visitors.’
Its a hard kick to his gut that he is oblvious to the presence of two mares who talk to thin air like a bunch of idiots. They don’t deserve to live as far as he is viewing them, carefully inspecting them with his demon eyes at a safe distance. He hears their voices slip through the night and ruin his run of excile. The events of nights past and days spent asleep in the grasses have led him to be more welcoming to others, but their standing around and small talking is really stepping on his knotted black tail. It flicks and flashes against his legs, the short black mane tossed about momentarily before he goes towards them.
Viewing him stroll over to them is a difficult process to accept. His bones work before your very eyes while they teem with amazement. It is hard to accept that he is moving when everything in front of you is going like clock work. His body is performing tasks that it has become accustom to with ultimate precision, practiced day and day over again until it is just mandatory for it be taken in that fashion.
With his mask upon his head, he becomes an escapee from the trenches of World War I, having ran in the mud and surrounded by the dead and the dying, soon to become one with one another, breathing in the burning fumes through his gas mask, his friend and protector when the world faces the apocalypse.
Their social gathering is intrupted when he snorts, stamping one hind leg to the earth and rising up dust glittering the orange Moon’s colours. His throat pains him, rough and sore from the times that he chooses not to speak and it only release the occasional groan or moan brought forth by the strain of his daily life. They’re setting up their little tea party and he comes in start the bloodshed about the same time they pour their tea and take their seats, bringing up the gossip about who is having an affair with who.
Worthless is the word he uses to describe them when to his eyes, it is the world about him, including his own existance.


OOC: I got the muse. xD

"talk talk talk"