bottle of red, bottle of white

[Jefferson Soul]

[html]

And perhaps he was. The spirit he possessed when he was younger — even a year or two when he first started as a Valley member, as that was all he could remember of an olden time of his life — had been lost to him for a long time. Jefferson had never been one of "youth"; Maluki perhaps, before he had gone batshit insane, but never the individual that named himself Jefferson. He had only known war and conflict, at first only external, then only internal. Jefferson had not been involved in combat much over the years, and yet it was all he knew, for his faded memories and undying guilt not once let him sleep a full night, nor leave the dizzying whirlwind of thoughts that plagued his very being.

The cyclops raised his eye from his hand slowly, not to Razekiel but at the gentle movement of the lake. Hand over his mouth, he considered the statement a long while, once again lost to the cage of torment that was his mind, before finally managing a bare shrug.

"Maybe I am," the scarred man replied, shaking his head. The smoke of the coyote's cigarette clogged his senses and burnt at his eyes, like they would an old man, and one of the Patriarch's knees ached in anticipation of an evening thunderstorm in the wake of the humidity. Where had he even been in his thoughts when Razekiel approached? Now dispelled, he could not even focus on whatever had troubled him before, but knew the next thing on the list would substitute soon enough.