[micheal] time goes on and on

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

Russia... it was almost like home - Hexasol, that is. Cold, empty, lonely, and vast. Vast expanses of cold stone and snow spanned across the earth as far as the naked eye could see; in the distance, the white crests of a wide chain of mountains loomed dangerously over the earth, like the gaping maw of some world-devouring monster. The sky was a bleak gray. Though it was about noon, the the bitter wind hissed across the landscape, encouraging all the hopeless humans of Europe to scamper into their little homes.

It was odd to mention humans; the world known as Hexasol had been void of mankind for far too many years to recall. A deadly virus had swept through Hexasol and the surrounding lands. What had first begun as a strange rapid-spreading virus was quickly recognized as the bane of man and the apocalypse of their reign on earth. Unfortunately, without men to tame the wild, felines and canines were at war, the world become an even more embittering and disgusting place than it had started.

Hangman knew the cruel reality that was war; he, unlike countless others such as the Tempest Pack and Iris Pride, refused to partake of such an evil practice. Part of war gave him a purpose to live, though. With war came pain, and with pain came an overwhelming desire to die - that was the Hangman's purpose. He sought out war-torn hearts and relieved them of their pain. His own death, however, had not been nearly as satisfying as he had long dreamed that it might be.

It was a peculiar thing to die, really. He had never anticipated that he would die at the claws on some blood-starved savage of darkness. Hangman remembered every second of his death: the terror of not knowing what was happening as the Darkness that was ingrained deep within Hexasol boiled to the surface around him, the realization that his own angels of death had come to retrieve his heart, the pain of their deadly claws digging into his chest and picking him apart bone by bone, and then the calm as the pain subsided forever.

It should have been forever, anyways, but he had not served his purpose; no, if he had, he would be dead instead of an empty shell. The wolf moved slowly and silently across the cold plains of Russia, limping slightly. His faintly aged hips pained him, but for the most part, the half-dead Mackenzie wolf ignored it. He could feel the beginnings of a long, cold depression weighing down on him, bringing an unjustified sorrow to his soul and an agonizing pain to his body.

The russet-and-gray wolf moved at a slow, steady pace as he traversed the tundra. He let out a quiet breath through his nose that escaped him in a cloud of fog and created a frost on his short black whiskers and grizzled muzzle. His red and black ears flattened against his skull as a gust of wind rose seemingly from nowhere, threatening to knock him back. He braced himself, but just as his claws found a hold on the icy terrain, the wind subsided. Hangman blinked his weary golden eyes, scanning the horizon for any signs of life. Even if he did find it, he wasn't interested. He didn't feel cold - the hound felt nothing - but he knew he'd freeze to death if he didn't find a place to rest soon.

Unfortunately, this was Russia. The likelihood of finding something was next to nothing. Perhaps that was good... Hangman could just walk forever. Time would go on and on, and Hangman could be carried with it, never having to feel his own misery again; however, that was not his purpose. He was in pain - an endlessly broken heart with no remedy - and so were others... if he could help them, he had to.

As the mountains near Hangman continued to grow, the giant teeth biting deeper into the sky, something caught his eye. Having lived in an empty city for all of his life, he was used to seeing buildings, and he was remarkably comfortable in them. He changed his direction and began to head towards it, his head low and his stature getting more and more low and unapproachable by the second. Hangman was not unapproachable... he just didn't care much about keeping others company and trying to make friends. He didn't care much about anything.

The wolf could feel that there was a storm brewing on the horizon - not much more than a blizzard, really, but Hangman didn't care much for the wind, and blizzards had a lot more wind than he cared to be mauled by. The small wooden cabin, nestled within a nice alcove in a steep mountain face, would provide plenty of shelter. All he needed to remember was that, unlike on Hexasol, there were humans to account for here. He wasn't in the mood to be beaten at by a broom.

He reached the cabin before he even knew he'd made a step; he was slowly losing interest in focusing on life. He just needed to find a place to lay his weary head... at least until he was out of the depressive funk. He stood, his head still low, and his ears perked up as he listened for any sounds of life. The wind was loud within the alcove; he heard nothing. He sniffed at the air, but the bitter cold made him smell nothing - either that or he just didn't care to pick out individual scents.

He walked towards the front door, his tail dragging on the ground behind him. He stepped onto an icy welcome mat, pressing his muzzle towards it and sniffing at the fibers. He picked up a faint trace of man, but it was very faint, as if from weeks ago. Unbeknownst to the canine, the owners of the cabin had passed away about a month earlier due to illness. It was abandoned, and would provide a pleasant shelter from the bite of Russian blizzards.

Hangman lifted his head finally, looking at the door. He lazily scratched at the door frame, just beneath the oaken portal, but it didn't move. For a moment, he stood staring at the door, but then he turned, slinking along the edge of the house as his gaze sought out an open window - even a cracked one would do. He didn't want to have to jump in and risk injuring himself. Then again, who would care if some mangy old wolf got himself all cut up after breaking into someone's home?

As he reached the rear of the house, a smell reached his nose. It smelled like a candle, or some other flowery fragrance. He felt his heart momentarily jump with pleasure. The meadow... Hangman spotted a kitchen window that was faintly cracked from the bottom up; unfortunately, he also spotted the latch that was holding the window still. With a quiet but accepting sigh, he realized that there was no way in. His head dropped low again, and he wandered back to the front of the house. The smell of flowers clung to his fur.

[Micheal Coen]

Micheal trudged through the snow holding the furs close to him. He was growing weary and numb in the cold. He had come here on accident. This world seemed to just be post revolution Russia It was strange to see it, how eery it was.

Now it was just cold. He was so lucky the furrier took pity on him and gave him some furs to bundle in. They were the only thing between him and certain death, and even that protection wouldn't be enough through the night. He had tried making a portal of Darkness to get away from this world, but he hadn't figured out how to do it on purpose.

This was all a terrible mistake. Being on this world, trudging through the snow searching for something he could use as shelter. His abdomen still ached from the stabbing, even though the wound itself was mostly gone. Had that only been a few days ago. What was Chaos, how would they stop him.

It wouldn't matter if he didn't survive the night. To think he survived being stabbed in the gut by a superhuman, just to die in the frozen wasteland of a mockery of his own history. Oh yes, today was an improvement since yesterday.

In the distance he saw the outline of a house. Maybe they could offer him shelter.

Even if they don't we can take it.

We're not going down that road.

If they refuse, then we die, that can not be allowed.

I have no intention of dieing, we will find a way. Besides I don't see smoke, death from illness was rampant in this area during the deep winter, entire villages could be cleared out by a single winter. If no one is there, we don't need to worry about it.

Micheal continued to move forward. Once he reached within sight of the wolf he stopped. He could tell immediately it wasn't an actual wolf. He reached out and called the Soul Stealer to his hand, but still kept the furs wrapped around his shivering form. "I know you have no heart, and aren't Heartless. What are you?"

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

The wolf stopped as soon as he rounded the corner; the thick grizzled red ears sitting atop his head perked up, and immediately his pale honey-brown eyes locked on a new figure. In his depressive state, he hadn't even noticed the new scent being carried on the wind; he would have been startled by the creature's appearance, had he really had the interest in him to care. No, he'd rather expected to run into a man eventually. It was the way most of the worlds worked, save for a select few which Hangman had not had the opportunity to travel to as of yet; people tended to run into people.

Hangman stopped moving, simply giving the man a steady, unyielding stare. This man was rather oddly dressed - in a manner of speaking, anyways. Though he was, indeed, clearly a man, he wore animal skins, much like the one that Hangman had lived with all his life (being that he was a wolf). The furs were various colors, thicknesses, and textures, some being coarse wolf or bison pelts while others were felines. Hangman could tell; after all, he'd lived in a city overrun by canines and felines of various domestication, and despite the furs being treated, he could smell the death on the skin.

The man was tall - certainly taller than Hangman, as he had never been one of the largest wolves, though he was certainly not one of the smaller breeds of wolves. The man wasn't exactly muscular, but he wasn't lean and stringy, either. He had a very mild, appropriate build - athletic, maybe. The hair on top of his head was long, full of several different shades of color - mostly consisting of golds and browns - and his eyes were a lovely blue color, quite reminiscent of the sky. Hangman blinked but once as he watched the man's immediate, instinctive reaction to the strange red and gray grizzled canine that stood motionless in front of him.

The man held to his furs - Hangman could see that he was cold as well - as, suddenly, darkness seemed to swirl up out of the bitter air, as darkness tended to do. It stopped its shifting in his hands, instead coming out to form a long, jagged object. Hangman had seen that sort of thing before after he'd become a... a nothing. Though he wasn't certain what it was, he knew it meant violence, and Hangman was opposed to violence and unnecessary skirmishes. The man spoke, and though he put up an offensive, dangerous front, Hangman knew that the man was cold; he didn't want to fight more than necessary, either. At least, not in these freezing temperatures.

The man stated in a cold tone in words that Hangman understood quite well, "I know you have no heart, and aren't Heartless." He narrowed his eyes and asked suspiciously, "What are you?" Hangman had no interest in conversing; even if he wanted to, he couldn't. He was a wolf, not a man, and he liked to stay that way. Speech was unnecessary... as was waiting in the cold. Without making a sound, Hangman turned on his thick, heavy paws, his face emotionless even though there was a horrific pang of pain that shot through his hip.

Like any normal dog would do, Hangman looked at the handle of the door. He sure couldn't turn it - no hands - but the man could. After a moment of receiving no reaction, Hangman turned back to the man, giving him a meaningful stare as his bushy gray and tan tail flicked from left to right, stopping and drooping again. He blinked, then turned to the door again, scratching at the base of it. Normally, Hangman wouldn't care so much, but he had any opportunity to get what he wanted - as did this man, if the brute would just read Hangman's message and open the door.

[Micheal Coen]

Micheal watched the wolf move. It was obviously not a native of this environment. It didn't have a winter coat, it's fur was still full of browns. Micheal wasn't too familiar with wolves, but he imagined this one was some type of Timber wolf. It didn't make sense for a North American wolf to be in Russia.

Of course he was also sure a wold should have a heart. Maybe animals just didn't have hearts, but he knew that was wrong somehow. This creature before him was different in too many ways He could recognize it was like a Heartless, but not. What could fill that void, what could it mean. Was it like Chaos?

No, Chaos had felt very different. Chaos didn't have a heart and that was it. He did not feel like a Heartless in the slightest, just a resounding lack of a heart.

Micheal looked to the wolf and sighed. Of course it couldn't answer, it was a wolf. Apparently lacking a heart did nothing to uplift the animal. So it wanted Micheal to open the door for it. They were both cold, and the building looked abandoned. "Fine we can table this on account of the blizzard." He said as he let go of the Soul Stealer, it banishing into non-existence.

He moved forward through the cold and tried the handle. When he shook it, he wasn't surprised to feel it was locked. Oh well, if someone did live here he would leave the munni to replace it.He slammed into the door, once, then twice, before a resound crack echoed through the area. Once inside he looked up.

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

The man was surprisingly interested in watching Hangman's every movement. Were Hangman not quickly being overrun by his damned depression, he was sure he'd be gazing endlessly upon this peculiar man as well. Hangman could feel something different about this man - something that was a bit familiar to how Hangman felt. It was like there was something inside the both of them that neither of them could break free from. Hangman knew that, for himself, it was the manic bipolar disorder; he'd been born with it, his father had died with it, and Hangman had died and come back to life with it. It would never go away.

What this man had was similar, but different. It almost had a smell to it, whatever ailed this man. It was the kind of thing that Hangman's senses went nuts about. He couldn't define it, and he couldn't identify it. He didn't even know how to describe what it did, but he could feel it in his fur, and smell it on the air, and hear it in his ears, and taste it on his tongue. It practically radiated off the man - whatever "it" was - and were Hangman not slowly losing interest in life, he would be going nuts trying to figure out what it was. There was something peculiar about this man... something that Hangman, as a beast of instinct, both trusted and feared.

There was nothing Hangman could do about it, though. Whatever it was, it was going to stay, whether he liked it or not. With that in mind, he watched the man who seemed faintly distracted by whatever musings befell him. The wolf watched and waited as the man met his eyes, then heaved his shoulders and let out a heavy sigh. Hangman was uncertain of what had caused the man to sigh, but, eventually, he decided to grant Hangman's unspoken wishes. He moved towards the door, his weapon fizzling away to nothingness once again within a gust of wind, and he muttered in his odd human accent, "Fine, we can table this on account of the blizzard."

Hangman waited with his endless patience, his tail still as it hung behind him, his head lowering to ease the pains that were quickly starting up in his aged shoulders. The man reached for the handle and grabbed at it; though his hand twisted at the sphere of metal, the door did not shift. The command was not obeyed. Hangman's ears perked up faintly as the man backed up from the door a bit. A split-second before the man began to charge at the door, Hangman knew what was to occur; it was highly likely that it would be loud, and potentially dangerous, were the door to shatter and shards of the door frame to crack and lash out at the wolf, but he didn't particularly care. He'd just heal in a few days anyways.

The first time the man collided with a door, there was a heavy thud, but the door did not move. Hangman's ears fell back against his head, and his head sank even lower. The man took a few steps back once more, and Hangman watched with expressionless eyes as the man leaped for the door; the wooden settlement lets out a shriek of protest as the wooden frame cracked and splintered, and the door gave way to the weight and force of the man. Hangman stood, peering into the door for a moment. The man stood inside now, appearing momentarily dazed by his siege on the door. He looked around for a minute, and then Hangman was satisfied to enter.

The wolf slunk in after the man, his limp a bit more noticeable now that it had gotten so much colder outside within just the past few minutes. His dry, cracked paws were slowly becoming more and more sore and raw and left tiny spots of blood on the wood floors that sat just inside as he stepped in from the cold; bits of snow and frost clung to his jagged fur, but he paid no mind to it. Despite that there was no heat in the establishment - and there hadn't been in nearly a month - it was considerably warmer inside than it had been outside. The man would appreciate the warmth, no doubt, but the wolf was apathetic. He had used up his care and concern for the day.

He looked to the left, where a carpeted living-room area sat in front of stairs which led to the second story which likely contained a bedroom and bathroom, and then he looked to the right, where the kitchen and dining room sat. The smell of the meadow-flower candle met his nose again, but his heart no longer leaped. He was tired. It was time to lay down. The wolf fought to take each step, trying to hold off the over-bearing depression for just enough time to reach the carpet. At the edge of the carpet, beside the antique-looking cough, he flopped down onto his side, letting out a heaving sigh and stretching his limbs out in front of him. He listened to the man, but not actively. He didn't care what the man did anymore.

[Micheal Coen]

Micheal quickly went into a survivalist mode. He went over to the fire place, after laying his furs down on the couch. He placed the wood and tender in expertly. He had learned to survive in many different conditions, setting up a fireplace was a piece of cake. Within seconds the kindling had caught and was licking the larger logs in flame. Shortly the place would warm up, making it much less inhospitable.

He then went from room to room, to see if anyone was here. When he opened the master bedroom he knew what had happened. He was surprised to see the corpse. It had already dried out, but in these conditions that could put time of death. It was strange seeing one that was so fresh. He went to the bathroom and grabbed a few towels to place under the door.

Now that he knew he didn't have to worry anymore about the owner, Micheal went through his supplies to be able to face the next day. He came back with a fur jacket and then turned his mind to he kitchen. He wasn't surprised to see the food stores were fairly barren. Very little of it hadn't gotten rotten yet, but he was able to get a few good potatoes as well as a generous amount of salted meat and found a large pot. He set most of the meat to the side for his journey in the morning. The rest he put into the pot, along with the potatoes he cut. He then opened the door and filled the po with snow.

He came back in shivering, but walked the pot over to the fireplace and hooked it in so that the impromptu stew would cook He went back to the door and grabbed a chair to brace against the door so it wasn't opened during the night. He already feared a strong gust would come down the chimney blowing out the fireplace and possibly setting their only shelter on fire. Of course a proper chimney wouldn't let that happen, but at this time many houses were still handmade.

He returned to the kitchen with a back pack and packaged most of the meat and the other supplies he had found in it. Once that was secured he took down a plate and a bowl, and fetched silverware for himself. He placed the last hunk of salted meat on the plate and went back to the living room.

He placed the bag on the couch next to his furs and new jacket. He lay the plate down before the wolf. "Lets see if some food can't do you any wonders." He turned back to his stew and began to season it. "It can't be to bad not having a heart, Chaos never seemed to mind it." He said shivering involuntarily at the name.

He looked over to the wolf. "It's not going to bite you. You could use the protein to make some heat, keep you warm through the night."

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

The wolf maintained vaguely aware of what the man did as soon as he entered. Much like Hangman had done, the man headed towards the living room; near to the gaping fireplace, through which spontaneous spurts of bitter wind shot, there sat a pile of firewood, and the blonde-haired man quickly went over to it. Hangman, now laying beside the couch a few feet from said mantle, knew what he was doing, not because he'd seen it before and knew what it was, but merely because he... well, knew. Men were no less beasts than wolves were. The thing about man was that they had the means to survive in intolerable conditions, whereas brutes like Hangman received no helping hand.

The man worked around in the fireplace for a short amount of time. Subconsciously, the blood-furred wolf's ears twitched and flicked at every muffled thump and click of wood against wood or wood against stone. He had prepared the fire in a timely fashion - mostly because his life was depending on it and he'd fallen back into man's instinctual live-or-die mode - and soon the heat of the fire was spreading through the house. Smoke and wind tangled sporadically in the chimney; every little rush of wind could be heard and seen in the sudden lurch of the fire or in a gasping sound somewhere up the fireplace.

As soon as the fire had begun, the man wandered off the opposite direction that he had come. Hangman layed motionless, his eyes unmoving; occasionally he blinked, but for the most part, it could barely be seen that he was even alive. He listened as the man rounded the couch and began to move through the house, searching each room for things which Hangman did not know and could not understand in his empty state of mind. Doors opened and shut beyond Hangman's view, and he couldn't help but allow his ears to follow the movements of the peculiar man as he rushed around.

Hangman shut his eyes, but there were no thoughts in his head. His entire soul had become vacant. God knew how long this depression would last; they were unpredictable. He wanted to wish that it would go away, but he didn't care enough to wish it away. It came and went as it pleased, regardless of his desires... that was the way life worked. Some thumping around upstairs caused the wolf to open his emotionless eyes of gold, and he stared towards the fireplace, watching the fire leap around and dance with every instant that the storm outside grew stronger. The wolf knew that it wasn't likely that the storm would stop for at least a day or two, but he didn't care. He'd just lay here for a while anyways.

The man returned down the stairs, and Hangman hadn't moved any part of his body; his legs were still stretched out before him, his tail laying limply behind him, the side of his head against the floor as his eyes gazed emptily across the room, still not watching the activities of the man. There were more footsteps in the ktichen, as well as the sound of metal clanking against metal as the man sorted through pans and silverware and such. He rummaged through what he could find, and all the while the wolf remained still, listening with a heavy heart. The man came back into Hangman's line of sight, wielding a large, heavy pot full of what food he'd found, and he waddled out the door.

For a moment, the man seemed to have just disappeared, but he returned, and snow was clinging to the thick coat of fur which he'd adorned, as well as to his hair. Hangman blinked once, and it was a slow, noncomprehending blink. The man moved into the living room, now fully viewable by the canine. He watched absently as the man began to prepare his food, but after a moment he disappeared again, returning to place a heavy chair against the door to hold it shut overnight. It probably wasn't wise for the man to kick down the door... oh, well. It happened. Nothing they could do about it now.

The man disappeared for several minutes, and the sounds of rustling packaging items met Hangman's ears. When he came back, he carried with him his backpack, two plates and silverware. He set his bag on the couch beside some furs, and then the man knelt slightly before Hangman, setting one of the plates before the canine. Only now did the wolf see the contents of the plate: a chunk of the meat. Hangman took in a deep breath, and what smell hit his nose might have made other starving dogs salivate, but he merely accepted that it was, indeed, meat. He did not move as the man returned his attention to his own food that he was preparing.

There was a moment of silence before the man spoke, letting his thoughts be heard by Hangman. "It can't be too bad not having a heart. Chaos never seemed to mind it." There was an odd, sudden change in the man's disposition, and this caught Hangman's attention, if only for a moment. What was Chaos? A person? A thing? Hangman certainly knew what chaos was, but he didn't know a thing by the name of Chaos. The disdain and unhappiness displayed by the man expressed to Hangman that, perhaps, this Chaos had done something evil to the man. Hangman didn't know.

The man looked back to Hangman, and for a moment he was quiet, before stating, "It's not going to bite you. You could use the protein to make some heat - keep you warm through the night." The wolf let out the faintest of sighs. He knew - oh, how well he knew. He just didn't... care. Oh, well. The man was quite insistent, and Hangman was certain he could stomach this empty task for a bit. He raised his head slowly, licking pathetic at the chunk of meat for a moment before pinching it between his deadly teeth and dragging it off the plate, setting it right beside his face.

He gnawed on it absently for several moments, and every gush of salty liquid that came out remained flavorless on his tongue. He felt nothing - tasted nothing - smelled nothing. He was nothing... As if being manic bipolar wasn't bad enough, now he truly, honestly was empty. After managing to keep himself occupied by eating half of the meat - which took a considerably long amount of time - he let his head drop to the floor again, ignoring what little meat remained. Half of him wanted to pick it up and put it on the plate, but... the bigger half of him didn't care enough to do so.

[Micheal Coen]

Micheal sat in front of the fireplace stirring the stew and seasoning as he tasted it. It wasn't much, but it would keep him warm and fed. He did wish that some of the green had made it, but even in a giant refrigerator, it had been long enough for them to go bad.

He looked over to the wolf chewing on the meat. It was odd, as if the beast didn't want the meat. It reminded him of himself at times. How many nights had he spent burried in depression.

Depression you choose to keep.

I will find her.

No we won't, she will always be gone from us. Our paths have separated forever.]/b]

No I won't accept that, I can't accept that.

He sighed as he finished the stew and began to ladled some of it into a bowl for himself. He took the bowl and moved to one of the chairs and let the soup cool off before he attacked it. Once he was done he looked up and out the window. "Looks like it's going to keep up all night. We could be trapped here for a while."

He got up and cleaned off his dishes and moved the pot off the flames to heat later when next he got hungry. He came back to the chair and pulled out a small book and began to write in it. Once he was done he closed and looked around. "Dammit, I hate sitting around when I should be doing something about leaving this god forsaken world."

He raised his hand a slight bubble of darkness opened up, but faded quickly as it imploded on itself. "Dammit, why can't I do it again, Does someone have to stab me with the gut again before I can open another portal on purpose?"

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

Hangman let out the softest of sighs; it merely blended in with a rush of wind that hissed over the chimney, then faded into oblivion. The canine was happy he was out of the wind - or, at least, he knew that, if he could feel anything, he would be happy. As of now, however, he was less happy and more just... accepting. Que sera, sera, as some might say. Hangman wouldn't say anything. There was no point in speaking; no one listened anyways. As it was, the canine was just fine with sitting around listening to the hum of the speaking world while he was trapped in his own dark mind. It was better than being dead... at least, that's what he assumed he should believe.

He was vaguely aware that the man, for a moment or two, had watched the starving wolf eat so indifferently. Hangman almost felt guilty for eating the salted meat; the human could have made better use of it than the wolf, and now all Hangman had done was wasted half of a meal that the human could have and should have enjoyed or saved for later. Still, some part of the depression eased long enough for Hangman to appreciate the gesture. He was sure his stomach was grateful for the food, too. The rest of the wolf was apathetic... he just wanted to be left alone to merely exist, because living was not an option.

The human sat around the fire and his soon-to-be stew for a while. Hangman merely stared off into the emptiness, mirroring the emptiness of his own heart. After quite some time, the man finally put some of the still greatly steaming stew into a bowl and sat in a chair just outside of Hangman's line of site. It was another several minutes before the sound of silverware scraping obnoxiously against the bottom of the bowl could be heard; the man had a ravenous appetite. He ate the soup nonstop, and, unfortunately for the man, it was gone very quickly. Good thing there'd be more for him to eat later.

The man spoke, and the sudden sound startled the wolf. "Looks like it's going to keep up all night. We could be trapped here for a while." Hangman considered responding, but he hadn't the will in him to make any sounds. The man stood shortly after speaking, bringing his bowl past Hangman and back into the kitchen to clean off the dishes. The man returned swiftly, taking the pot of remaining stew off of the fire and setting it aside, probably for later use, as Hangman had imagined he might - and should - do. No need to let all of that "nutrition" go to waste.

The man went back to the chair in which he'd been sitting, and for a short time the room was quiet. Hangman could sense tension building up in the room; it made his blood-tinged fur bristle a bit. With a heavy groan, Hangman rolled to his feet, standing up and limping over to the man. For a moment, the wolf kept his flaring golden eyes fixed upon the man's face, but the man appeared to be distracted in his writing. Once upon a time, Hangman had heard that having a pet a therapeutic or something... a good stress reliever. He didn't know, though. He didn't care. He just wanted the man to calm down, because Hangman could feel the tension like electricity on his skin.

At last the man finished writing and he closed his book, holding it on his lap and looking around. Hangman stood motionless, watching the man. After several long moments, the man finally snapped out loud, "Damn it, I hate sitting around when I should be doing something about leaving this godforsaken world!" Hangman blinked once, slowly, and continued to soundlessly watch the man brooding. The man lifted his hand up then, and Hangman lowered his head a little bit, blood-furred ears flattening back against his thick neck.

An oddly familiar sound hit the canine's ears and he followed the man's gaze; a pool of darkness was bubbling up from the floor. Ah, so this was what seemed so peculiar about the man. The darkness longed to rise into a full portal, but it collapsed on itself almost instantly, fading into pathetic little wisps of black. Hangman turned his head slowly back to the man as the man cursed once more. "Damn it, why can't I do it again?! Does someone have to stab me in the gut again before I can open another portal on purpose?"

Hangman dared to step forward so that his shoulder was against the man's leg. He rested his heavy head on the man's lap, letting out a low, rumbling breath that vibrated the entire house, his golden eyes fixed at the man's face. The wolf could not communicate what he desired, but he understood the man's frustrations at being unable to achieve what he desired. After a moment, Hangman lifted his head, laying down on the floor and instead resting his head on the man's feet, letting out another softer breath as his inaudible voice rumbled in his chest.

[Micheal Coen]

Micheal sighed and looked down to the wolf. He found his fingers absently moving towards the wolf, scratching he head like he would his families German Sheppard. It didn't even occur to him that this was a wolf at his feet, not a dog.

He just continued to scritch and stare into the fire. It was going to be a long night and all he had for company was a wolf and a corpse. He needed to get back to Traverse Town. He needed to find the next world he would need to visit to not find his fiancee.

If you are strong enough we can find her, even in the darkness.

Are you going to suggest I kill this wolf?

It has no heart, that likely means it has no power. It is of no value to us.

Oh so creatures without Hearts are safe from you, but not genuine heroes? You were going to kill Sentenza.

He was weak, and he was injured. We could have used his power, I'm sure if we had, we would be able to control the Dark Portals by now.

"Enough!" He shouted out loud to banish the other being in his head.

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

It was a strange feeling to be treated as one's pet, especially considering the wolf - as a pup - had never been exposed to human contact; exposure to said contact was really quite impossible, considering their species had been wiped out by a deadly virus. Their death had no effect on Hangman... at least, it shouldn't have. His pack of four - well, what started as four - had been so isolated from all species it was remarkable that they'd ever been near a source of food and water. They had all been loners... had Hangman's father, Angorik, not eventually died of malnourishment due to his manic depression, life might have been very different for the angel of death.

After the death of Angorik, their family, consisting only of Hangman's mother and himself, moved to the meadow where other packs had once lived. If Angorik had survived, then perhaps Lithian, too, would have survived, and then Hangman never would have found his precious Pari who died giving birth to soon-to-be-dead pups. They had been beautiful like their mother... but he was sure they contained his ugly soul and brutal condition of manic bipolar disorder. He would never wish to bestow upon them such a cruel reality of overwhelming depression and hyperactivity. Some part of him was glad they died. Another part ached, and it always would.

It was strange, as he had previously decided, to be petted and scratched and treated as a pet... were it not for the fact that he was still swept up in an undying maelstrom of soul-embedded sorrow, he was fairly certain he might have found it comforting, but the fact of it was that his skin and his nerves felt foreign to him, and these fingers scratching absently in the thick, spiked fur on the back of his head were nothing but a muffled, fleeting sensation. He felt too empty to really feel the subconscious gesture of affection. But what did it matter? The man seemed too lost in thought to care whether or not the wolf was pleased. Hangman did not care.

There were several long, cold minutes of silence. Unseeing eyes of blazing gold stared, unfocused, off into the distance, body almost completely limp. Hangman felt dead inside now... the man had required some attention, and Hangman felt it to be his duty to provide said attention. That now said and done, he no long had the strength left in him to so much as hold his head up. The world had gone quiet, save for the continuous roar of the fireplace as it fought against the bitter wind, and Hangman felt peacefully suffocated by the quiet, like it were trying to quietly send him to his death.

The silence was broke in an instant; the man's tortured and strained voice shouted, "Enough!" Hangman's golden eyes flickered to life again like some strange monster reawakening, and with much effort the wolf forced itself into an upright sitting position, swiveling its heavy skull on its thick neck to focus those intense eyes on the human. The wolf watched the man with an interrogating stare, as though he were asking the man to explain the reasons for his sudden cry. It was strange that the wolf - not the dog, the wolf - could seem to understand so well without understanding anything at all...

[Micheal Coen]

Micheal looked to the wolf and scrunched his face in confusion. He knew he had just spoken aloud, but this reaction seemed so much more purposeful, as if the being actually did understand him and was now questioning him. Well , he did at least owe the beast some answers.

"I think I am going crazy, but I'm not sure anymore." He said as he summoned the Soul Stealer to his hand. "I'm from a world called simply Earth, I was an archeologist studying some ruins in the desert when I first encountered the Heartless. In those ruins I found this weapon, it was the only thing we had that could hurt them, and only I had it. In the end the Heartless devoured my world."

He dismissed the weapon and looked to the wolf. "It taught me how to fight, as long as I hold the blade, I know where to move and how to strike. More then that the sword gives me the abilities of those I kill." He said, and to demonstrate it he melted into a pool of shadow and slid across the room, reforming on the other side. "Since then a new voice has appeared in the back of my head, urging me to be cruel and dark. It wants me to consume the powers of everyone near me. I hate him, and the only thing we can agree on is we need her." He stopped chocked up , and biting his lips. "My fiancee was with me in the desert, she might have gotten a weapon as well, she might have been able to fight the Heartless, and she might have made it like I did, so she could be out there." He said each word bringing him closer to tears.

"Of course, it gets worse from there." He said as he removed his shirt and a black patch of thicker skin could be seen coming from the edge of his neck and traveling down his left shoulder until just above the elbow. "I think I'm turning turning into a monster, and I don't think I can stop it. I can sense hearts now, I am keenly aware when I am near someone who has a Heart. What can that mean." He asked, fear coloring his face.

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

It was fortunate - the man seemed to realize what Hangman was doing. It was quite hard for a creature without speech to communicate with something that didn't understand its native tongue. All the wolf had was various styles of barking, snarling, growling, howling, yelping, and whimpering, though he never used it. He had been silent nearly his whole life; he didn't even know if he could howl. The human, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was capable of. He could whisper, murmur, talk, raise his voice, yell, scream, roar... he could laugh, too. But all that Hangman had to work with was his body language and his blazing golden eyes that seemed to look into one's very soul.

In all honesty, the man's initial confusion was quite comical. He wondered what on earth this ragged wolf was looking at him so intentionally for. But he understood, for which Hangman was grateful. It took a moment for the man to decide that this wolf needed an explanation - if only Hangman could return the explanations, but he could not. The first words might have been amusing had Hangman not known what it felt like to be crazy. He knew that some part of himself wasn't complete; that weakness in his core, he was certain, was slowly beginning to rot and erode and destroy everything around it, and soon there would be nothing left. But such was life...

The man looked to his hands as something from the Darkness appeared, the same weapon that the slowly worsening Hangman had seen. The man said slowly as if he were struggling to say the correct things, "I'm from a world called simply Earth; I was an archeologist studying some ruins in the desert when I first encountered the Heartless. In those ruins I found this weapon; it was the only thing we had that could hurt them, and only I had it. In the end the Heartless devoured my world." Hangman looked the weapon over, knowing that this weapon was something he should likely fear, but he hadn't the capacity to fear anymore - that had never existed.

Hangman understood what the man was saying for the most part. Though archeology was a foreign concept, Hangman knew the desert, and he knew the Heartless, and he knew that only certain things could destroy the Heartless. He also knew that Darkness liked to destroy; after all, Hangman's own world had been destroyed by the Darkness in which Hangman and this man survived now. It was terrible that this man, who seemed to have had such a pure heart before, was now the pawn of Darkness. Hangman had never deserved to be in the light. Being a student of the shadows now only gave him further purpose... though his depression did nothing to help him achieve his goals.

The man's blade disappeared and Hangman blinked slowly, showing as well as he could that he understood. The man went on, "It taught me how to fight; as long as I hold the blade, I know where to move and how to strike. More than that the sword gives me the abilities of those I kill." As if to show an example, the man used the ability that Hangman had watched many Shadows use, simply sinking into the ground and traveling, untraceable, that way. The man reformed on the other side of the room, and Hangman's golden eyes remained calm and complacent, following the man's every move. Hangman didn't have those abilities. He didn't mind. What he did have was a terrifying growl that could shake the earth; his bark would certainly do damage, but he did not bark. He was silent.

When the man went on, Hangman could sense a change within him. He stated, "Since then, a new voice has appeared in the back of my head, urging me to be cruel and dark. It wants me to consume the powers of everyone near me. I hate him, and the only thing we can agree on is we need her." The man stopped, and Hangman sat a bit taller. Immediately the wolf could feel heartache and headache growing stronger in the man; he was in agony over something, this "her" he had referred to. The man said softly, his voice trembling a bit, "My fiancee was with me in the desert." Almost immediately Hangman understood; the human had lost his mate.

What made the man different from Hangman was that there was a sliver of a chance that the human's mate had survived. Hangman had watched his own mate die years before the Darkness had destroyed everything. The man said, only proving Hangman's believe that he had hope, "She might have gotten a weapon as well; she might have been able to fight the Heartless, and she might have made it like I did, so she could be out there." Hangman narrowed his golden eyes, if only faintly, acknowledging the man's beliefs, though the wolf found no solidity to it. When darkness took over, very few survived. The ones who did were lucky, few, and far between.

The man went on, "Of course, it gets worse from there." Hangman watched, his face void of emotion, as the man pulled his shirt garment off over his head. The wolf was rather surprised to see some strange black leather-like substance spreading over the man's skin like moss spread over a rock. The wolf did not know how to react to it, so he let the man speak. "I think I'm turning turning into a monster, and I don't think I can stop it. I can sense hearts now, and I am keenly aware when I am near someone who has a Heart. What can that mean?" The wolf remained quiet for several more moments before he stood and walked over to the man, brushing the man's hand with his nose. There was no other comfort or answer that he could provide.

[Micheal Coen]

Micheal brought his hand to the wolf's head once again. He sighed lightly, almost as if he had expected the wold to be able to speak back. Of course the odds of running into two animals that could speak were relatively low. However it had done him some good to have said it aloud.

Your not turning into a monster, your becoming something better then anyone else.

LEAVE ME ALONE

You treat me like an invader, but you know what I really am.

Your nothing more then an advanced hallucination. Just a way for my mind to process this.

No where close to that desert boy. You know what I am. I am every repressed feeling. I am all of your anger, your ever flowing greed. I am what drives you to seek forgiveness. I have always been with you, only now I have a voice.

No, your from the sword, your not part of me.

Believe what you will, but you will always know the truth.

He looked up with slight tears in his eyes. It was true wasn't it. It wasn't the voice of a Heartless or something else. it was his own Id. It wasn't some monster growing slowly from the power it was himself. "It's been me the whole time."

"Glad to see you've figured that out." Another voice said from Micheal's mouth. "I was getting worried that you wouldn't let me out." It smirked using Micheal's features. The whole of his body language shifted. This was not a kind man with a mounting depression anymore. This was a predator, brimming with confidence.

[Hangman]

"Quote." - Thought. - Action.

There was little Hangman could do in the way of comforting the man; after all, the wolf was not a man. He was a wolf - a mere canine. Though he did dwell in the shadow of death, he was no greater than the man. This he knew; the only fault of man was that they were able to be wiped out so quickly by disease and war. It seemed that war was a disease, ever present, lurking around every bend, watching... waiting. It was the predator waiting to strike the weak, helpless, pathetic population of any given world or species. Because of this, Hangman could find fault in anything, including his own kind, the animals, but that was not his purpose. He was not born to judge... he was born to ease the suffering of nations.

Unfortunately, easing the pain of others meant that slowly, death by death, he collected their pain and suffering. It seemed that happiness was never to be his own - only sorrow. First was the death of his beautiful sister, Naome, with her glinting coat of red and her long, beautiful legs. She had been his best friend and sibling, and he had loved her - perhaps more than was normal for family, but it did not matter, for she died at two years. Then his father, Angorik, had died. It was Angorik's disease that Hangman was cursed with now, the wretched manic depression... but it was not Angorik's fault. The canine had run himself ragged trying to care for his withering family. He had died of malnutrition.

The humans, then, had died, leaving the animals to dither amongst themselves. With only Hangman and his mother left to speak of in the pack that had once been composed of four, they traveled inward from the desert to reside in the meadow... and then his mother, Lithian, was stricken with the dying sickness - cancer, though Hangman would never have known and been able to save her - and Hangman was alone. He should have died, but it was not his purpose. He was born to eliminate sorrow by taking it upon himself... much as he longed for it, love had never been part of his plan. He had stumbled upon it, but the stars did not align. It was not part of his plan.

Pari was his darling. She meant everything to him. She was the only family he had, but the fates were angered. Hangman was unworthy; he had taken something beautiful from the earth and tried to make it his own. It was only fair that she died like the rest. But the pups... Oh, the agony of the death of such young creatures... The tyranny that was fate. Hangman had been repaid for stealing beauty from the world. Was the man unworthy, too? Was he a sinful creature, wrong and foolish, damned to never keep what he loved and always lose what he needed and desired? It was the case with Hangman... perhaps the man was as unworthy of life and love as Hangman. But he could not know.

The man and the wolf were quiet, and Hangman noticed the man once again petting his head, but he could take no pleasure or real notice of it. It was nothing special - nothing that registered in his head as pleasant. Nothing was pleasant; it all felt as though it were occurring through a body bag, as though he himself were already dead, and it was some other-worldly thing to be touched and spoken to. Hangman leaned his head against the man's leg, and for a moment the wolf's eyes were flickering shut, as though he could finally sleep and rest, but then the man, who had been lost in thought, spoke, and Hangman stepped back to listen.

The man's voice was little more than a whisper, and there was some strange fear and realization in it: "It's been me the whole time." The vague statement would have been of no concern to the wolf, but then there was a complete changed in the atmosphere that made the Hangman's ears fold back against his skull, made his head lower to the ground, and made his shoulders and spine bristle. There was a new voice coming from the man as he said, "Glad to see you've figured that out. I was getting worried that you wouldn't let me out." There was a malevolent presence radiating from the man, and Hangman could sense it.

The wolf let out a low warning growl that shook the house; in the kitchen, the chandelier jingled and dust fell from the bookshelves; pots and pans jangled, threatening to collapse to the floor. Hangman, who had only a moment ago been complacent, was awakening to his purpose to eliminate sorrow. This new being was causing pain to the man in some way. It was Hangman's duty to help, but how, he did not know. The enemy was the man. Hangman's growl, after a moment, lowered into little more than a rumbling breath, his tail lashing behind him.