The steely blue of his form creases the horizon as a small blemish on the otherwise pleasant summer morning. Obscure moves with a methodical shuffling, his dark eyes nearly glazed as nothing registers. He sort of 'comes to' and notices as the sand and sharp pebbles turn to soil, the way roots disrupt his hard steps, the sound of birds mindless chattering replaces the stupid caw of seagulls.

"Fucking garbage rats." The three words are muttered under his breath, low and raspy.

He stops momentarily to gaze upward at a blue sky without so much as a simple fluff of cloud. The roan man pulls his lips to the side in a slow motion frown of acknowledgement of his surroundings. He had seemed to existed for a long time off and away from the hum-drum of Beqanna. How long had it really been? Fuck. He had lost count ages ago. Ob decides maybe he would work on his tan and get a little sun, maybe rid himself from the persistent frigid grip of his bones.

He says nothing to the soft whispers of 'hello' and 'good morning' from passing women. The dark eyed man doesn't even offer a grunt or his attention. They are all just talking heads full of estrogen and dripping desire. Obscure instead drops his head so he can clip at the smooth green bits of grass because he really had nothing else to do at this moment other than let the sun split his spine and for the nasty little fly bastards to nibble at his flank and tender parts.

He is not sure if he is happy he has returned to Beqanna.

obscure

i don't give a fuck