The air quickly turns into something far more playful than it had been in the Threshold.  Likely, the removal of the giant chip from my shoulder had everything to do with this turn of events.  Ashamin himself seemed like a kind soul, willing to put up with and aid someone as callous and brutish as myself.  Instead of thanking him directly, my praise comes in the form of a shift in attitude.
After all, being around too many people tends to make me anxious like a caged animal.  It had been that way for many years now, and normally the anxiety made me lash out at undeserving folks.
Well, some of them surely had been deserving.

"A comedian, I see," is my response to his description of our journey here.  The tone isn't hostile, but strangely flat in the rather lighthearted air.  Maybe I am just tired from my wound; maybe I am just tired of life.

His next monologue would have driven someone else to attempt to comfort the painted brute, probably.  Instead, I watch him with mismatched eyes and a blank expression.  The words seemed strangely downtrodden for a soul like this painted man.  Even though I had just met Ashamin, he seemed unlikely to fall prey to self-loathing and doubt.  Whatever happened in his past, I could not see, but had I been able to, I would relate well to the imagery of blood.  Even standing here, in front of a large river of ruby painted water, made me feel this whole situation was ironic.  I am not stranger to bloodshed.  I have never shed a tear for the wounds I inflicted, the lives I took.  I never felt anything except a strange version of relief.
Now, looking into the pool which reminds me of my past, I feel a little queasy about my past life.  Maybe I really have died, and instead of heaven, I have arrived at some bizarre intermission.
I certainly don't feel like myself.

"I wouldn't dwell on it so much," I offer, though I make no attempt to clarify why.
Like I said, I'm not trying to comfort him.

When the painted stallion's face returns to a stoic calm, I sense that my healer is coming.  Whatever connection Ashamin had to his companions, as he called them, it must be strong, for he draws back up into himself, leaving none of the painful expressions on his features.  Something stirs in me then, like I feel strangely connected to this stallion who doesn't even know my fucking name.  Maybe my anonymity offered him a stage to air his inner thoughts, or maybe my devil may care attitude.  Whatever it is, I am confused.
I don't want people relying on me.  I cannot be relied on.  I am a failure, more than he would ever guess.

From the shadows of the trees arrives another stallion, long and angled strangely.  His limbs flow much like Ashamin's awkward tail, and I find myself wanting to laugh at the odd appearance and amble of his gait.  I do not, maybe because I am tired, but an amused smile does flash across my lips for the briefest of moments.
A bundle of herbs falls near my hooves, and I feel relieved the white stallion does not ask me to chew his wood, like Lyanna had.

"Ryouta," my name extends in return for the healer's - Seanan, and though I am speaking to the tall skeletal man, my eyes focus primarily on Ashamin.  Perhaps, I am trying to make up for my terrible attitude later, but I felt that I owed the Clovenheart my name, at least.  "Yes, feel free to do whatever you need.  Arigatou."

I extend my wing back to reveal the jagged line sweeping from my shoulder to my barrel, my eyes turning back toward the pool of blood.  "Let me know if you need me to move or do anything to make it easier."  

Ahvelyn

The air quickly turns into something far more playful than it had been in the Threshold.  Likely, the removal of the giant chip from my shoulder had everything to do with this turn of events.  Ashamin himself seemed like a kind soul, willing to put up with and aid someone as callous and brutish as myself.  Instead of thanking him directly, my praise comes in the form of a shift in attitude.
After all, being around too many people tends to make me anxious like a caged animal.  It had been that way for many years now, and normally the anxiety made me lash out at undeserving folks.
Well, some of them surely had been deserving.

"A comedian, I see," is my response to his description of our journey here.  The tone isn't hostile, but strangely flat in the rather lighthearted air.  Maybe I am just tired from my wound; maybe I am just tired of life.

His next monologue would have driven someone else to attempt to comfort the painted brute, probably.  Instead, I watch him with mismatched eyes and a blank expression.  The words seemed strangely downtrodden for a soul like this painted man.  Even though I had just met Ashamin, he seemed unlikely to fall prey to self-loathing and doubt.  Whatever happened in his past, I could not see, but had I been able to, I would relate well to the imagery of blood.  Even standing here, in front of a large river of ruby painted water, made me feel this whole situation was ironic.  I am not stranger to bloodshed.  I have never shed a tear for the wounds I inflicted, the lives I took.  I never felt anything except a strange version of relief.
Now, looking into the pool which reminds me of my past, I feel a little queasy about my past life.  Maybe I really have died, and instead of heaven, I have arrived at some bizarre intermission.
I certainly don't feel like myself.

"I wouldn't dwell on it so much," I offer, though I make no attempt to clarify why.
Like I said, I'm not trying to comfort him.

When the painted stallion's face returns to a stoic calm, I sense that my healer is coming.  Whatever connection Ashamin had to his companions, as he called them, it must be strong, for he draws back up into himself, leaving none of the painful expressions on his features.  Something stirs in me then, like I feel strangely connected to this stallion who doesn't even know my fucking name.  Maybe my anonymity offered him a stage to air his inner thoughts, or maybe my devil may care attitude.  Whatever it is, I am confused.
I don't want people relying on me.  I cannot be relied on.  I am a failure, more than he would ever guess.

From the shadows of the trees arrives another stallion, long and angled strangely.  His limbs flow much like Ashamin's awkward tail, and I find myself wanting to laugh at the odd appearance and amble of his gait.  I do not, maybe because I am tired, but an amused smile does flash across my lips for the briefest of moments.
A bundle of herbs falls near my hooves, and I feel relieved the white stallion does not ask me to chew his wood, like Lyanna had.

"Ryouta," my name extends in return for the healer's - Seanan, and though I am speaking to the tall skeletal man, my eyes focus primarily on Ashamin.  Perhaps, I am trying to make up for my terrible attitude later, but I felt that I owed the Clovenheart my name, at least.  "Yes, feel free to do whatever you need.  Arigatou."

I extend my wing back to reveal the jagged line sweeping from my shoulder to my barrel, my eyes turning back toward the pool of blood.  "Let me know if you need me to move or do anything to make it easier."  

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