so make me your deadman, with only poison in my veins,

A hellion cares not for borders or boundaries, hold no esteem in defined measures or rules drafted in unison. Rebels and renegades, they wander freely because they choose to be free - unbowed, unbroken. May it be that they had sought refuge within the cozy confines of a woodland prison; it didn't mean they would remain there forever, or let themselves be chained down by votes of majority, democracy and ridiculous notions of peace.

That this land, vast and deserted, did not previously exist in the land roughly defined as Helovia is of no concern to the midnight ghoul. That he hasn't set foot on these waterlogged sands before does not necessarily mean they never were here. Lately his perception of time, distance and location has been warped, skewed by the sudden appearance of light, shapes, landmarks. Where previously a lake was just a lake, the past year had seen him fed with recurring images from the pestilential raven, such that a tree no longer is separate from another tree and one mountain suddenly is vastly different from another.

Confused, bewildered, reluctant to absorb these changes the restless ghoul withdraws from the touch of the soul-bond, secludes himself in the familiar darkness of his own mind. With no eyes to sting and tear he walks headlong into the biting wind, shivering only marginally in the comfortable drape of sable velvet, acquired in the far north where snow already lies thick. For once his stride is loose and easy, confident; the ceaseless croaks and caws of the bird is swallowed by the vastness of oblivion, revealing nothing whatsoever for him to trip over, stumble on or tangle into.

Braced by the comfortable familiarity of his blindness and the open space Morir ease himself into a brisk trot, a rolling canter - and when a call upon the wind sets his blood on fire he turn easily and trace it back to the source, to the waiting opponent. Ready to answer the challenge.

He has his own way of assessing an opponent. There is much to be gained from listening to the earth; the sound of grinding dust beneath big, heavy feet, a whisper of silk as hair rustle in the breeze - long, but not excessively so. He knows the measure of a challenger on the time it takes from one footfall to the next, recognize deep breaths and youthful timbre of a worthy opponent when he meets one. Once, he circle around the gladiator, the confidence of his stride and arched neck eerie in the face of the sightless sockets, and then Morir slow to a brisk walk, still circling the man with plenty of distance to spare.

Inclining his head marginally he touch the tip of massive horns to the ground, drawing a lazy line in the sand - slowly, while steady feet measure the spring and firmness of the ground.

"I do hope you are the one who called" he says, deep voice rich and smooth and barely more than a whisper. "It's been some time since I had a good fight... Would you try your luck against a blind man, boy?"

He grins beneath the pallid mask, eyeless sockets fixed on the focus of his attention, uncannily as though he really could see. High above, blown like a rag across the windswept heavens, the raven cawed again. Morir raised his head higher and breathed in, tasting an acrid scent he had encountered only rarely, and never before tested his strength against. This was, perhaps, not the best time to do so either.

"Lets leave the kids out of it, shall we..."

A suggestion, but that was all it is; he will face whatever the opponent have in mind. Such is the way on the battlefield - you never get to choose your enemies.

---

PC: 0/3
WC: 636

Note: I say we use them. Feel free to lie if you want to. ^^

chaoticmelodies & larfsalot @deviantart | subtlepatterns.com