'Shajake.' Hmm???? 'Stop.' Why is that? 'Take a look.' He stops like the white figure's voice within his head has asking. Gaze turns to the little mare, and he can detect the hurt he has inflicted upon her. Are mares always this fragile? 'I believe they are. Esfaere wasn't like this, was she?' Well, that's something I don't remember too well. "Don't mean to offend. The last to touch this body was someone who brought hurtful memories. It was not to offend you." Why is he so suddenly polite to this little thing when only minutes ago he was hunting and plotting out ideas to kill her. He brushes it away with the idea that maybe it is the fact that he has lacked company so long that her naive ways seem comfortable to him. Sighing, the idea brushes away before he remembers something. In their rush to get out of the rain, she had left her prisoner, and in some awkward way it seemed that it might as well bring it back. She was so intent on taking it home......
His change of direction is fast enough to make him slip and fall in the mud and splatter the winged mare in mud, but as he slides about in the mud and freezing rain, he returns to the stream, and spots the flower relatively quickly. It is still being held prisoner by the rock, being crushed down by the weight of it. With a motion of his nose, brought down closer to the ground, he moves the rock off of the flower, and picks it up in his teeth. The thought of him looking like an idiot came across his mind anyone who knew him came across him. Yet who was to know him? He mainly kept to himself, and this much social interaction seemed alien to him. Though he held the flower in his teeth, rain pelting down upon him in endless waves, he can only return to the winged mare with it in his mouth.
Returning to her side, he carries it still within his mouth as she speaks of her name. 'Africa? Is that her name? You would of thought of something more unique.....' Shut up. 'Whatever.' He can catch the snippets of her hurt within her voice, and as if to break his own laugh, goes to bump her on the winged shoulder with his head to attempt to cheer her up. He said he was sorry, didn't he? Wasn't that enough, or were mares always this way?
As silence falls between them like a thick veil, he quickens his pace towards the dead Oak tree ahead. The destination grows nearer and nearer with each step, he catches her steady voice ask if he has a home. He lacks a home - herd life is not something he ever thought of himself to be involved in, and intents to stay away from the interference of the herds. Their fueds are pointless to him - yet though he is asked now, he reminds himself he tends to reside within the Deep Forest where there is less company there. Best to give her some type of answer.
"Well.... if you think of the Deep Forest as a home, you could say that. I tend to reside there." His voice is still residing there. It's dark and demonic tone will never break free from him, and he will never be granted a normal voice like the others. But how is it to bother him? Again, this much conversation is rare and uncalled for with him.
Stepping under the branches of the tree's, the rain almost aburptly stopped except for the occasional drops that leaked in through the entanglement of branches above. Orangemoon's stroke of death left no place untouched, and this tree would make no exceptions. Come along in Birdsong and it would be filling with life. Why they didn't die off with the seasons and then revive he could never understand. Coming towards the thicker center of the tree, the trunk of the proud tree at least three feet in diameter, he let the prisoner he'd carried within his teeth down before finding another rock -this time smaller and light, so not to crush it- to jail it with. His attention went to Africa only for a slight second before a sigh parted his lips and he felt himself wishing to lie down. The weather was actually taking it's toll upon him, and as he could feel his mind slip, a bombshell went off within his brain that made him jump. He was being yelled at for not following orders that the disease had wanted to him to follow. Yet if he was not to rebel, what more was he facing. The white figure held no meaning except for annoying conversations within his head sometimes, and if he found a way to ignore it, might he have some shred of normality? Normal is not normal, and he wasn't the right puzzle piece to fight the hole to make things normal. He happened to exist at the one piece in the puzzle box that didn't belong anywhere even when the puzzle is finished. He simply existed in that opposite world.



"talk talk talk"