[open] Paper crowns on wooden heads; ANY

[Romek]

Of course Romek had come back, like a little rat to his little familiar rathole. No-one could stay away, could they? It was some irrevocable force of nature, dragging him back, dragging them all back, in little circular patterns of habit and routine, predictability, loneliness. There had, possibly, been a time where he would've returned to his original beloved home, his first and last, but that time had come and gone. After all, he tells himself, when you live forever, why would you want to be tied down to the same place? He tells himself. Perhaps he felt a spot of shame. Perhaps he just wanted a new start, a fresh start, away from old familiar stomping grounds where the ghosts of faces would surely be lingering, if not the faces themselves. What he had come for he could not tell you, or anyone, but he would know it when he found it (he hoped, anyway).

It's a grey day, grey and drizzly, but the weather does not truly bother the spotted stallion. There have been worse things to fall from the sky, like birdshit, and it was a refreshing, if slightly itchy feeling upon his back, soaking into his skin. It dripped off his nose as he stood, nameless, faceless, a nobody in this place for the nameless-faceless. He fit right in. Perhaps in his arrogant youth he would've thought - o God, the nobodies, the useless, the worthless. But today, not quite so much. Today it was the land of opportunity, of self-creation, where he could shrug off whatever imagine shackles he had.

But he hoped somebody came quickly, because it was very boring to stand here alone, and he had the patience of a, well, impatient horse.

{{OOC; First post in forever. Forgive me.}}