It had started the day the egg hatched. He knew now that it had been day. On the whole, it might have been less painful if it hadn't been.

How do you describe light to someone who had never seen it before? How do you explain trees, clouds and the color green? To some, it might sound romantic and wonderful - a blessing brought by a sole act of kindness, salvation for one damned soul...

It was nothing like salvation. It was merely painful, and confusing. One moment you hear the crack of splitting egg-shell, the next your mind is flooded by impressions; sounds, scents, and worst of all.

Sight.

It had been pain beyond anything he ever experienced before. Worse than having his eyes gouged out of their sockets. That had been a passing torment - this one persisted. The brightness, the flashing light, the boundless shapes, forms, colors. It came and went, moved independently from himself, made him disoriented and confused.

For several long days he had considered just squishing the feeble, helpless existence that caused him such agony. Many times he had been close to doing it purely by accident. Such a blind, minuscule thing, featherless and weak... what good could ever come by keeping it alive?

Well. Call it weakness or softness or the inner kindness of his heart. The same flaw that caused him to salvage an abandoned egg kept him from extinguishing the life of the raven that hatched from it, and from that day onward Morir hadn't had a quiet moment. It had amused him to watch the critter grow, find its wings and become independent. He had even named it, in a moment of sudden inspiration. But the enjoyment it gave him just barely weighed up for the greedy, demanding nature of the soul that so haphazardly had tangled with his. Instead of growing up and leaving like birds usually did, this one stuck around and seemed to find a savage pleasure in getting in the way. It was underfoot, pecking and prodding, cawing and it demanded to sit on him.

It even tried to help him.

But to someone who lived in darkness his whole life, who never needed the help of another before to get by, light and sight and helpful nudges was only insulting. Morir needed no help, nor any helpful suggestions. For five years he had been able to take care of himself, had survived harsh winters and fought off starving predators and emerged each spring alive and well. Somewhat thin perhaps, and more scarred than a sighted creature might... but alive none the less.

What more could you ask for?

A lot, apparently. Company, a purposeful existence, a mare to bed and opponents to beat. Arwydd had, if his mere presence wasn't annoying enough in itself, a knack for digging up his innermost desires and flaunting them before him, as though they were his ideas and Morir was nothing more than a brain-dead chunk of walking meat.

It was in a desperate effort to silence the pesky bird that the ghoul made his way west - yes, west, and he knew this without the aid of mental visions of burning orbs sinking beneath a glistening flat surface - towards a dark, haunting forest he once had planned to rule. Nothing had come of those dreams in the end. The empress-to-be had abandoned her cause and disappeared, the loyal warriors had scattered with the four winds and now here he was, a mere outcast - blind, harassed, jerking the heavy head violently to shake a black bird off the borrowed bone crown - begging for entry.

Like a demon sprung from some nightmarish tale he halted in the gathering darkness with the tip of his longest horn nearly touching the surface of a crumbling wall. If he persisted, the black diamond would make short work of the fragile substance, but kicking down the door was not the best way to introduce yourself to the master of the house. Instead the beast withdrew slightly and settled down to wait with a patience that suggested he would remain until dying days lest he be addressed, prepared to wait quietly however long it took for them to notice him.

With a smug look to it the raven landed on a prong of the white-washed elk skull's antler, settling down like a king upon his throne. The demon tolerated it for a moment - then jerked his head again and sent the bird back into the air with a sharp, piercing caw that echoed throughout the forest.

Some might say he cheated. Others still would call it devilry, how he always managed to know what was going on around him. Witchcraft and trickery - it always made the hellion smirk to think about. Contrary to belief both then and now, he possessed not a sliver of hidden wisdom. The only witchcraft that ever touched his skin were the glowing marks upon his back and like an oddly shaped birthmark, Morir felt he could hardly be blamed for what his parents gifted him with from birth.

He needed no magic to perceive the goings on, nor sight for that matter. It was as simple as listening, scenting, tasting, feeling the earth beneath his feet and interpret what the signs might suggest. Because while one horse might think it stealthy, silent-footed and hidden from sight, it was harder by far to erase ones personal scent, the rhythm of your breath or the weight of your bulk as steps however careful carried one forward.

So when the King approached to address the mercenary the heavy neck turned even before Temobvu uttered a word, following his approach with uncanny attentiveness - as though the beast somehow could see without eyes, capable of witnessing that which indeed ought to be hidden. And though barely noticeable, he somehow picked up on the vanguards bewilderment; a smile touched upon the inky lips, wry and amused.

"Morir" he retorted, as always sparse of word. The voice were a pitch lighter than the king's, quieter and smoother yet still as deep and smoky as himself. There was a brief pause as the behemoth considered the question. Why exactly had he come here? Maybe there was time to back off yet, to change his mind and retreat back to the solitary existence he was familiar with...

But the raven cawed again as it flitted on and off among the branches above, and something tautened around the hollow sockets, a frown of disgust that found reprieve in a sharp snort.

"I'm looking for work" he finally said. A truth, though of course not the whole story. Never the whole story. It would take much too long to explain.

"If you are in need of able people... I can fight, collect information, perform whatever shadow dealings a herd could use. Winter is approaching... I can be of use until spring, at least."

He tasted the air around the big stallion, tried to gauge his reaction. There were other herds if this one refused him, and outcast bands if all else failed. But, well. It would be better to cut this chase short - or the bloody bird would find something else to mock him for.

The apprehension of the king was palatable, his reluctance not so much the way he appeared to lean back as in the slight hesitation before he spoke. It amused Morir as much as it annoyed him. Was it because of his blindness, or... but of course. He had worn it for so long now that he forgot about the presence of the grim mask he wore. Over the years it had become as much a part of him as the tangled mass of hair that hung like a curtain from his crest, an extension of his own body. Before, when the Regime still were active and he an integral part of the operations it had been a mark of his devotion to the darkness they dyed him in, a tribute to the World Eater and a pledge of loyalty to demons and wolves.

Once the loosely bound rag tag band of misfits scattered however, he had thought many times of simply throwing it aside. He had not been raised to walk a path of cruelty and dark deeds and the path of shadows still felt foreign, like a harness strapped on too tightly. Yet he couldn't seem to shake it either. It clung to him, bringing dark thoughts and foul deeds in his wake until he indeed had become what the shaman back home had warned him of - the demon they had painted him out to be, tormented because it was not who he was inside.

Now, Morir thought again of throwing aside the mask. It was merely a piece of bone, hardly more intimidating than a painted symbol or raised spear - and yet it seemed to strike fear in the hearts of everyone who passed him. Still undecided as to whether this reluctance pained him or not, he took it as an excuse to do as he pleased, to play indifferent and continue to dance his ghost dance of dread. But was it time now, to set aside who he had become before it was too late? Was this his chance for a better life, a better existence....

But then Tembovu spoke again and something hardened in the ebon steed, and the nod that made diamond spears draw circles in the air was impatient, annoyed.

He didn't like repeating himself.

"Of course. Who would think to hide themselves from one who cannot see? Being blind doesn't make me deaf, king. I couldn't tell you the color of your enemy nor how many scars they carry, but give me time and I can find out everything else you might need."

People got careless around those they perceived as less able. Many raised their voices when speaking to him as though his disability affected his ears too, and his nose, brain and cock to boot. They spilled their secrets without thinking, sometimes without even knowing how much he perceived about them. Scents, accents, names dropped and troubles shared, how they referred to one place and another...

But he felt no need to explain this, because even though he swallowed the anger of having his sole weakness counted against him yet again, the king had not yet refused him. And if he still hesitated, there was but one thing left for the stray wolf to do.

"Why not test me" he suggested, in an off handed way that was neither challenging nor defensive. "Give me a task, see what I can do. You'll know my worth at the end, either way."

And he smiled, a crooked grin full of the sort of wicked charm that led hot headed colts into battle and mares to betray their stallions - greedy, hungry for a challenge.