He lays in the mud and muck, bathed in the sick waste of the melted snow after it took off with the mare that he performed actions with left for the bedroom. If the damned girl gets pregnant(like we all know she would), he was going to kill himself or at least have his nuts chopped off. They get him into more trouble than he was ever meant to be worth.
Mask clouding any visions of his face that anyone wanted to view, the green eyes within his skull lazy and dull. He rolls, pushing out a groan in the process of doing soon. More of his dappled coat is covered with the dead weights, blood still caked to his lips from the few dead bodies that were tossed between them as if the morge had gone out of business and bodies dumped to the streets for those that had a certain love for corpses to toss about. Wherever those corpses ended up, they carried no purpose anymore. He'll find his feet in a few more days after hating himself for what he's done, and will freeze his ass off when he bathes to run the blood off his shoulders and face.
Almost gone into a comatose state and gone for good, something comes about his single ear and kicks him in the pants. Get the fuck up, bitch., it yells to him, ready for him to get up and listen to the sounds of pain and agony as small squeaks fill the single ear that lay limp. He doesn't want to, he only wishes to wallow in his filth and the filth of the earth. He is set to believe that he is scum and must follow those rules until that cursed kid falls out that mare's other end.
Legs breaking and sounds of joints begging for forgiveness and mercy as he stands, dragging himself up from the grave that the corpse lay within while the gravedigger is busy dying of the Plague. There are too many dying and even those forced to care for the dead die, and soon after the dead rise to take their brothers and sisters home with them when the living neglects them. He places this very role upon himself, searching for the death with his bones exposed through his gray skin with the signs of malnutrition.
I swear upon my weak soul that when he walks in broad daylight, they rattle and shake, performing the skeleton dance as a solo.
Inside of the mists and baking within the oven of Orangemoon daylight, he finds a mare just a bit taller than himself. His view stays upon her, attempting to understand her very presence. There is not a speck of emotion within him when he see's the little thing that runs about her feet kill something. He's here for the death, and there it was.
He approaches her, body ungraceful and a disgrace to any high stepping Arabian that held it's nose so high up in the air that while it was busy looking down on others landed it inside the butt crack of a draft horse. His eyes linger about her, looking at her scars and the skull she wears as her mask. The gas mask upon his head is not the same welcoming thing that she bares. It is made to hide him for the world, so that when they see the man with one ear and a scar at his neck they feel a heavy sense of uneasiness and want to push him back into the horror movie that he escaped from. His chain is more than rattled when he watches the little creature that trailed about her feet play with it's food.
"Playing with food? Wasting the meal?"
His throat is still ripe and awake from the previous hours. The horned woman made him speak, and it awoke his voice though it still is deep and macabre, sending shivers down the spine as it floods out of two gas filters at his muzzle. Through the glass shield over his eyes, his eyes have come alive, making that the both of them know that Death has just appeared upon their doorstep.



"talk talk talk"