Bread, Stitches's horse, grunts softly and shakes out his long mane again, freeing it of the pesky drops of water that drizzle from the sky, only to have it dampen and soak once again mere moments later. He trots a hoof on the ground, as though trying to shake the attention of his companion. Stitches had been this way for some time, though it was different at first.
At first he cowered away from his estoc, then came the sobbing and screaming after a long heated debate, seemingly with himself which unfortunately Bread could not understand. After the incident on the road, Stitches had slaved over proper graves for the three fallen bandits, and tried his best to move on with his travels up a small mountain. Yet it would seem that at the peak of the half mountain ahead of them, Stitches had gotten into another argument with his other half. It was a screaming match, and it ended with lightning, thunder, and a heavy rain. That, however, wasn't all it ended in. Rather, a solemn reality offered by the shadowed man which Stitches had claimed by his side, words he himself did not want to hear or think true.
This sent him into his current states. First the cowering in shock and fear, then he had hardly risen only to fall to his knees and give into his tears, and finally near the end of the long night, the fire having finally gone out, a curled up lump right before the empty pit. Now, it was raining again, two days later and Stitches hadn't budged. Bread is long past the point of concern.
Bread's equine eyes glance down the other side of the mountain at a patch of vibrant green, and he stirs in hunger for him and his master. Perhaps Stitches needs a good patch of grass too. Very nutritious.
Stitches is unresponsive as Bread neighs this in suggestions. He looks cold, sitting in the muck in clothing now wet to each and every fiber. What a shame too, what with a perfectly good tree only inches away. Stitches's eyes peek out from between his crossed arms and the brim of his hood, staring at the blade of the estoc.
Bread clops up to stand over the estoc directly, and push his head against Stitches, as if nudging him, pleading for him to rise. Stitches is still, his eyes half closed. His stomach growls but he cares not, his head throbs but he cares not, his mouth is dry but he cares not. Amung the footsteps of the rain, Stitches finally extends his cracking voice to Bread, "I don't know anymore..." He answers to a question never physically asked.
