The cold was fading from the land, dull, but still present. Recent prisoners had been left within Andersteel, a task he had undertaken of his own volition. The coal stallion beneath him shifted restlessly, the beast almost jittery in recognition of the area. Home. The thought was melancholy to say the least. He had paced himself to arrive during the flush of the day, and despite the shroud that hovered over the entirety of the city since the queen's ascension, many remained indoors, detesting the uncomfortable remnants of light that flickered through the filtering haze.

Those that were out and about gave the heavily cloaked figure a wide berth, another thing he was grateful of. He wasn't one to socialize, let alone with the main populace. It was far too draining, and he was already far beyond the stages of mournful exhaustion. His arms were heavy, nearly like lead, and with any luck he would be able to cope through their recovery with a few days reprieve instead of having to visit someone to mend the the sloughing flesh from bone once more. Perhaps he had over exerted himself.

Silver gaze drifted to where the smog curled from under his thick sleeves, relenting a small sigh. He forced his right hand up, pulling the lip of his hood lower and the face covering further up until only the glimmer of his sterling stare bit from the shade. His trek ultimately lead him to the market stalls, ones considerably more noisy than his last visit. The conditions, while deplorable, could hardly be helped with the large influx of fresh blood. Observant stare would drink them all in, curiosity marking his brow with a soft furrow. This process was such a trifling matter, one he still loathed to this day, hundreds of years after the first time he'd been forced with the undertaking. He'd been adamant that he would allow himself to wither away to naught before he touched blood. This vehement curse something he found abhorring. His turning had been far from willing, a fluke of abandonment, perhaps even some distant form of vengeance from his maker. The father he dotingly called himself, that had....

He tilted his head slightly, unwilling to allow his thoughts to continue. Regardless, he knew this feeling, this rising tide. He was unwilling to lapse into madness as he had once before. It was a mistake that stained his honor as one who prided himself on his own self-control and diligence. He gave the merchant his price of crescents, taking the chains of his newest prisoner and cuffing them to the well polished leathers of the saddle. "Walk." He commanded as they attempted to dig their heels into the crevices of cobble as he nudged his mount to action. "Walk, or I will drag you. It makes no difference to me."