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"