Just another day in paradise...a smile crossed the elderly man's face as the thought surfaced. Despite his current housing situation; the situation being that he didn't have a home at the moment, he couldn't be happier. A political refugee, he'd shown up in Gabrealle looking for asylum, but didn't want to draw things out. Desiring as low a profile as possible, he'd simply melded into the fabric of the city, becoming just another face in the crowd. Days passed and eventually all time seemed to fade together. He couldn't remember how long ago he'd set up shop, but it couldn't have been more than four months. Roaming the city as he pleased, he was just another homeless drifter to the native citizens.
The first few drops of a rain from a storm passing through brought him back to reality. Raising his face to the heavens, he let a few drops run through the trenches of his wrinkles. Not wishing to let anyone catch a glimpse of his face, he quickly lowered his head and pulled the hood of his flowing robe back into its original, obscuring position. As the storm intensified and started to soak Gabrealle, the man ducked through empty alleys, the other homeless already having dispersed to find shelter. Pausing every so often to catch his breath, the old man moved slowly and deliberately toward shelter.
By the time he'd reached his 'hideout' (just a palette set up under someone's staircase, really) he was drenched. Despite his reservations about being noticed, he was worried even more about catching a cold. At his age, even a simple illness would bring him ruin. Looking around to make sure he was alone, he disrobed, wringing the long garment out section by section in an attempt to dry it. Always covered up, the elderly man was deathly pale, but his skin was covered in strange black runes that shimmered and shifted to other colors briefly as light hit them. Gaunt and seemingly undernourished, twisted and bent by arthritis, the man looked more like something that should be found in a circus freak show somewhere. Ancient muscles worked, slithering like snakes under his thin skin as he finished drying his robe. Satisfied, he curled up on his palette, closing his watery blue eyes and drifting off to sleep.
Then the dreams came. Despite the peace he'd found in his new 'home' during his waking hours, his past always came back to haunt him as he slept. The blood, tears, families ruined by his actions...despite the fact that he'd been used and had been a victim of his circumstances in a way, he could not deny that he was a monster. And he was forced to relive his sins every time he closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him. As a result, he didn't usually sleep much, and his hands were always red and raw when he woke, irritated by his attempts to cleanse the blood of ages off them as he dreamed.
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