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"

If this was all real, he might of recognized the idea that this single winged girl was someone he almost ripped an eye out of a young child for, he could of acted differently. He could of broken a smile that was accustomed to such a messed up creature, one that was living through the days upon some sort of quest that would allow ease over shattered bones. Maybe he'd break into that dark laughter that plagued the baking air surrounding their dappled bodies. These are all possiblities that would occur when he saw her, and was actually himself.
Now, it's the blood loss working the puppet strings, Scinfaxi frowning at the sight of the girl. While Shajake can easily feel the emotions of that white figure, they aren't understood. Emotion is unneeded process that cannot break through the filter for his brain to accept, therefore resulting in his lack of it. Today, there is a bit in store that can maybe used.
What he can feel from his mental companion, one that only he may view, is guilt, worry, annoyance, and surprise. Shajake only knows annoyance from The Unknown.
For our green eyed man, he feels a series of shocks through out his neck, the wound taking a life with its very existance. He stands without complaint, single ear pricked forward to catch her name. It's Africa, that annoying bird named Silas. It's familiar, but he cannot recognize it.
"S... Sh.... Sha.... Shaaaa..... Shajak.... Shajake."
Sounds that fall between his parted lips are deep, darkening with the pit that his sanity is being thrown into about now. The heartbeat he hears in the shadow hollow of his skull is fading away, a distant thump that could called his own heartbeat. It stops completely, taking his breath, his appearance of living when he is really alive, making them think he is exactly what he stands to live for.
Glints of curiousity can fill those eyes, clouding their glowing appearance in hot daylight. Night would be lovely about now. That cloak of black satin was his new favourite thing, where his body moved freely. There lay his ability to disappear, to not exist, to not be viewed upon and frowned at when the children see him. Their screams wouldn't have to heard anymore because he'd just be a pair of eyes and a sound of movement in the dark. Who would care then?
"Do.... I... No... You?"
'You know her, don't you? Can't you remember her, back with the flowers that were prisoners to be taken home when the rainstorm was heavy? It was when you had an ear.' The time that he had two ears is far into the past, lost in a series of events unfolding before him. Each event was gift wrapped and handed off to him, each one playing an important role. Gifts are nice to have, but all he can remember is disposing of them in his usual fashion. The girl who hid herself in the grasses got raped after cutting up his neck for not talking (She was such a bitch) was meant to casual company. A draft stallion getting a fix at the beach, bashing salt water into his wound who was meant to be a friend that he needed. This here? Just a creature left to see him die, if infection to take over.
She had originally asked a question, Scinfaxi taking a bit of time to remind the madman of that question. 'She asked if you were okay. Answer her. Be nice. For the baby.' "No."
That no speaks a thousand things he can't tell her. She wouldn't understand, she doesn't know him. How was she ever to care about him. All he ever was a man dying right before those beautiful little eyes, filled to their brinks with childish delight, maybe even worry. He's the psychopath she doesn't need to be around because she lives it perfectly. "She needs to die. KILL HER. KILL HER BEFORE SHE KILLS YOU." 'Lie. That's all you ever do.' "Kill her, Jakie. Kill her and bathe in her blood, bring her dead body to the baby and let it bathe in it." No. He replies to everything with that word now.
It's perfect these days, because it works with perfect outcomes each time.

"talk talk talk"

No tell-tell sign is fetched between the pair for them to recognize each other. This is a lingering sadness when they seemed to be fine with each at that first meeting, the second a bat clearly out of hell. The bird just knows the second one, Scinfaxi already knowing that that bird doesn't know the better side of the mad man.
He recoils to let the bird be aware of his actions. Today is not the day for killing this mare, and there wasn't going to be ill actions that could strain their train of thought. His fingers had received a thin purchase along the canyon walls, his feet scrapping along the edge looking for a hold. If he can climb up, then there is always the risk that insanity can be avoided. Rocks crumble and fall, his mad laughter echoing within shadows as the demons appear, their gasp of his body made of dust and ashes. Yet while they could always take the best of will from him because there were days he fought for it, now he just let them take him. Blood loss and the return of an old friend play large factors that morph him to break upon their presence.
She says she knows a Shajake, and that the name is probably common. No, it wasn't common. His state was disfigured and terrorifying compared to then. A bath in the water would be nice, to rinse away the pain. Life seeping back into his body brings things that cause him to hate the childhood state. Scinfaxi tried to bring him back, but unlike a child that he once was, you cannot win him over with candies and bittersweet promises.
"Do... You... No.. Re... Re... Remember... Me?" The disease pulls a few strings throughout his body, reaching down his neck for his vocal cords. Shadows overtake them, flames burning with no release that melt away the blizzard plaguing them. When was the last time he fully talked without a stutter? Chances be it was the time that it was when they first met.
Green eyes shift about with their usual dark manner, searching the ground for a flower or something to jump start her brain. 'Don't give her a "gift," Shajake. If anything, just a single flower to remind her. Dead bodies don't make too good of things for girls. That bird is a bitch already; let's not make it shit itself.' It flutters in the summer breezes, shaking at the sight of the stallion. His black muzzle moves down to get it, his teeth dyed a faint red colour from that damned rabbit. Time had surely passed since he shoved his face into a carcass and tore out body parts in a sick manner, but the blood took longer than normal to remove when you lacked a toothbrush and toothpaste.
When it is within his grasp, he offers it to her. Winds carry it towards her before fluttering away into an abyss of land mass and sea that exists beyond their reach. Heading to the beach would be nice about this time while the summer heat is relentless, but he doesn't want to be there. Pain is there, and damn, it hurt more than he'd ever remembered.
"Spies infesting your home? We've changed, Africa."
Shajake doesn't really speak those words, having them spoon fed to him by Scinfaxi just so he doesn't make too much of a fool of himself. This single winged girl was the one he had been willing to kill over. Thought drifts to that now lonely wing. If his teeth went for it and took hold, would bone snap and shatter under his power, blood falling from a shoulder while a mass of feathers went with him? Would that make normal like him, letting her become an equine and not having the burden of carrying an useless weight about? The idea makes him smile, feeding a dark part of him. His grip slips, and he begins descent again.
"Kill her. She won't mind." 'Just speak to her as you normally would. Tell her about the baby if you want, your actions, wounds, why you look this way. Most of all, ask her what happened to that wing.' How? 'Speak.' Confusion settles over his mind like a thin layer of volcanic ash, smothering everything beneath it, The corpse fades to a distant moan in the glass enclosure, searching for him. He needs to speak now, to ease the awkward. She asks a question, and slowly it processes.
Physically, he is silent and unmoving. The ear is pricked forward, listening for anything she might happen to say to him while the disease filters through things. Each green eye is upon her and the bird, wondering what makes her not remember him. Is his current state that bad that not even those who knew him before could remember him? He thinks to the shortened mane, the gash, his ear, and the smell of salt water. Blood is upon him in periodic places. Could he pass off a surgeon through the civil war who spent his days sawing off the limbs of wounded soldiers, ignoring their screams of agony? It's not a bad idea, it suits perfectly.
He gets the idea she asked him if he wanted or needed anything. Simple and sweet, showing that maybe she returned to her past state and now resides there. That'd be nice for his side, though it seems awfully selfish. "Bathing be'd nice. Rid the blood and relaxing." His voice is still the same sound it had always been. Deep, darkening, ripped from the throat of a demon to placed into a young colt who didn't need it. The thought of his voice running his mother away was never an idea that passed his mind. He'd messed up in a lot of places as a child, his father doing the most part while Scinfaxi acted as a comfort. Comfort in the end was the case of this whole mess here.
Water runs nearby, that single ear taking the task of both and growing stronger to make up for loss. Bones push against his skin, his ribs out enough that you could take a stick and play music upon them. Perfect for the 'Skeleton Dance', if anything. He's comical in an asylum-like fashion: it makes no sense, the psychopath kills the victim, eats his heart, drinks his blood, and then the bones that appear beneath his skin are played upon with the femur of his victim.
His body moves in a lurch, hind legs moving forward as to push the front about. They tell him to go, caring less if she follows or not. If she reminds who he was, then chances be she'd follow him. "How have you been? Night eat your soul?" 'Night took your's and slaughtered it, Shajake. Don't ask her that question. There is still one to be asked that needs an answer.' If he had been able to groan, he would of. It was a sound that never came from like the sound of sobs. Somethings cannot exist within a certain body as some cannot be cast under spells.
"Who took it from you?"
"talk talk talk"