[open] scattered in the mud; any

[Arka]

and every spell and scourge of god may be obedient unto me
thou spiritual sun: satan, thou eye, thou lust.

Arka, for his part, was an equal opportunity misanthrope. He didn't much care for anyone. If the group of mares hadn't been in front of him to pick apart and instead some stallions were posturing, he would have been equally as annoyed. In his mind, he reduced them all to stereotypes. He saw no differences, himself as an aberration simply finding entertainment in the meantime. (The narcissism was, classically, lost on him.)

Purpose, more like. But the hard part about finding purpose was that it required something to care about. So he latched on to ideas instead of others.

Left too long without something to defend, to care about, to consider worth his energy...Arka was better driven out, kept away. Boredom was a bone he gnawed on, and if left with it too long it would snap in half from frantic gnawing.

He considers her question. He was dirt, but he wasn't a liar. Even he had standards. "A job," he finally decides on, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth as he picked his words. "I don't really need a home, but I do need something to do. If that's defending someone else's home, that's fine with me." He left out the part about as long as they don't get in my way. 

"You got one of those? A home?"

ARKA

the wandering scumbag

@[Mary]