Another meeting, another opportunity to be humiliated and discriminated against, another opportunity for the Reaper to heckle him, startle him, stare at him with that fucking condescending glare of his, as if a mouthy old man is the worst of his personal troubles.

Albrecht obeys the call, as he always does – oh, of course no one ever takes notice of that though - but today he’s slow to approach, slower than usual even, bobbing and mincing along in his pained way, injuries courtesy of the black and gold asshat still fresh and exclaiming their need for attention every second of every day. He listens to the various speakers, but after Deimos’ pointed comment his emerald eyes stay resolutely pointed at the ground in front of him, resentment, anger, and even a little sadness hidden in their unmet gaze.

He has no intention of speaking out today or of interacting in any way, shape, or form if he can help it. He just wants to stand here and be left alone, put in his ceremonial appearance and then go back to being ignored and hated not-so-silently from a distance. That’s what they want isn’t it? For him to go away, to stop annoying them with his inconvenient need to continue existing. Fucking assholes.

The speeches are of unity, of strength, of the beauty of the Basin. They proclaim desires to expand the herd and improve relations with an open festival, but he doesn’t believe a word of it. Excluding a special few, they can’t even be nice to the tattered souls who do live here, so what makes them think they’re capable of being nice to complete strangers, let alone complete strangers who might - gasp - turn down their gracious offers for membership or disagree with something they say. He scoffs quietly at the thought.

Apparently the limp horned Haruspex has vacated, which is mildly surprising with his and Rexanna’s having parented a foal together not so long ago, and a few others he doesn’t know receive promotions, but he’s too busy feeling sorry for himself to look up and match names to faces. Instead, he waits just long enough for the Lord and Lady and even the wanna-be-Thief to finish their monologues, then turns away without looking up and begins the long, slow motion undertaking that is his manner of locomotion these days, pain and frustration forcing little grunts from his throat when a hillock of grass, slick of mud, or sprinkle of loose stones jars his careful step.


OOC // Better call the wambulance. Wah-wah, wah-wah