sorry about the wait, low muse and stuff. Shoooort. Uhm, this is going to be awkward since… does it take place before the meeting? So Kiche doesn’t know him?

With a frustrated huff, Kiche’s rump fell to the ground, the thump deadened by the pine-needle carpet. “Fucking thorns.” Lifting a large, dirty paw, the saint glared down at the culprit: a dark brown stub embedded in the soft, fleshy pad of his paw. Gingerly, he bent his head down and tried to extract it with his teeth to no avail. It was too difficult for him to balance his weight on one leg, lean forward, and attempt to get his teeth around one two-inch menace. Abruptly, he stumbled forward, and instinctually Kiche threw out his other leg in order to balance himself. A searing pain lanced his tender foot as the entirety of his weight fell on the injured. “FUCK!” Immediately he lifted withdrew his leg, tucking it up against tawny stomach. Cradling his injury, he jumped about on three legs, spewing curses with a vengeance, “FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT GOD FUCKING DAMNIT.”

The temper tantrum ran its course as he stormed about the clearing on three legs, condemning all the world and all the burrs and thorns and prickers and sharp things. When he began to feel himself calming down, he angrily dropped to the ground, completely exasperated. Lying on the ground, he imagined, would make it easier for him to dig the thorn from his paw. But it was impossible to get an angle, and at last he gave up, swearing once more for good measure. Suddenly he felt himself longing to be home with his masters, who would have healed him in a heartbeat, crooning softly and stroking his fur as they did it. And they would have given him a treat afterwards, too.

gunna apologize in advance for Kiche being a butt. Thorns make him grumpy :P

A voice shook him out of his bitter reverie. Vulnerable and suspicious, his head snapped up as if the sound had been a gun-shot rather than a voice. His muddy, ginger face, which would have looked much more handsome with a smile, wore a contorted snarl instead. alert, spitfire eyes darted about, locking on a scarred and sable wolf. The stranger’s face was marred and by a winding river of scar that traced all the way up his face and crossed through a cloudy, sightless eye. He was a fearsome sight, certainly he looked the part of a savage. The ears atop his red head swiveled backwards, unsure of how this beast knew his name. “Yes,” he replied warily, his eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you?” It took him a moment to realize that he had seen this wolf at the meeting, though he remembered that he had not paid attention to a word that the black monster had said.

Kiche tensed distrustfully at the offer to help. His response was curt and callous, “I’m fine.” He wasn’t. Pain turned him sour, though, and he didn’t feel like being social. When the nameless Hollow wolf decided to pull up a patch of ground next to him, the red saint’s hackles began to rise. Part of him realized he was being unfairly prickly, but this part of him was drowned out by the other part of him that shouted that he was in pain, that he was vulnerable, that he didn’t know this monster, and that he wanted to be left alone. “Who shoved a rainbow up your ass, anyway?” Really, why was this wolf being so friendly. The stranger didn’t know him. He had no reason to be nice. Heathens were rarely nice to him, and the sudden “lend-a-hand” olive branch struck him as suspicious.

Thanatos. The name sounded vaguely familiar, no doubt there was some part of his unconscious that had been listening at the meeting—if only partially. This Thanatos fellow seemed to be rather long winded, given to a lot of formalities and unnecessary speech. Quite frankly, Kiche found this irksome, though his face remained apathetic. He could apologize for whatever as much as he wanted, the ginger saint couldn't find it in himself to give a shit if he was "sorry" about what he looked like. While Kiche was personally prone to apologizing for anything and everything, he didn't apologize about stupid superficial details that he couldn't change. Sure, he couldn't change the past —which he apologized for quite often— but that was different. There was no penitence for an ugly mug. A disinterested shrug was the only response Kiche could manage. And as for not being as aggressive as he appeared, Yeah fucking right. Heathens did get their scars from rolling in daisies.

The way this savage laughed really pissed him off. It appeared everything about this chipper asshole rubbed him the wrong way. But in no way was Kiche prepared for the dark beast to suddenly reach down and yank the fucking thorn out. The uninvited, unwanted, unexpected invasion of his personal space caused him to leap back only a second to late, though he spat and snarled like a demon. His movement probably only hurt him more, but who was to say. Aghast and furious, Kiche could barely get the words out, "Who the FUCK do you think you are?" Immediately he fumbled backwards, wishing to put as much space between him and this insane do-gooder. "I never asked for your help, dick."

His arrogant sighs really pissed him off too. It was if the sable heathen saw himself up on a pedestal, so depressingly lonely and amazing, and wasn't it just a shame it was that all the other heathens weren't stupid enough to let him invade their personal space after only having just met. Kiche did not trust these thinly veiled civilities —this was a monster. He might have slowly begun to believe in Aisling's "silver linings," but he was still cautious, far too skeptical. This new savage, while his manners were pretty and well formed, was like a slap in the face. He stood for every feigned nicety and assumed closeness every heathen had committed. He was strange, he was what Kiche had been looking for so long now... but Kiche was a broken man now, a confused man, and to find Thanatos now —when he was so crestfallen, beaten down, and at the end of his faith— was like being mocked. This was very clearly a very clever, very sadistic joke on the heathens' part. But Thanatos wouldn't have understood that. No one would understood that. Fuming, breathing hard, Kiche appeared to be just another pissed off soul having a bad day, not a doubting agnostic at the end of his tether who had reached his breaking point.

"There was no need for you to just assume it was okay to invade my personal space. It's just as fucking "inconsiderate" as my "kind of language," you hypocritical prick." If monosyllabic, deadpan responses weren't getting his point across, perhaps it would be necessary for him to explicitly state his case. It left him out of breath, panting and vehement and frustrated. When it appeared that the dark asshole would walk away, Kiche allowed his walls down, expecting to be alone. However, it appeared that Thanatos was not done. It appeared he was due for another mouthful of stupid reproach.

The fact that Thanatos would offer himself as a punching bag raised a red flag in Kiche's mind. It was a clear indicator of a masochistic tendency that reflected an inner sickness, a love of the satanic. Although Kiche had perhaps done just that many times, he could not remember those moments, the details surrounding those fights. While he was not always a good Christian, he felt —no, he knew— that he was a far better Christian than these savages, and he couldn't remember being violent on demand. He certainly would never hurt someone because they had asked him to. That was bloody mental. "You heathens are all so savage. You all think violence is the answer, well fuck off. I'm not going to cut you up so that you can get your sick little adrenaline rush."

Perhaps now was the time to take a vow of non-violence. Permanently.

oh god, all this dialogue is going to drive me nuts. I suck at processing dialogue.
REEEELAPPPSE ~

A lot of it was just bullshit that came out of his mouth, and Kiche's flickering amber eyes stared back at the dark male with an unwavering callousness. The apology fell of deaf ears. If he was sorry, then he would change, then there would be no next time, and Kiche could rest in peace knowing he'd have his space to himself. Only Aisling had been allowed to touch him, but that had been without thinking. All other contact just made him sick, it made him feel disgusting and violated, like a sinner. While he knew it was probably wrong to think so, part of him imagined that he could contract a disease from touching a heathen. But perhaps contact had made him sick. Perhaps that was why he felt so lost lately, why he could not find it in him to pray or believe or feel good about himself. A suspicious feeling roiled in the depths of his churning, sickened stomach where an old, fettered demon began to thrash and break free.

When he came to, he realized he was suddenly being given an oral history of his bastards whole life — completely unwarranted. The arrogance of this black asshole was absolutely galling, absolutely fucking astounding. After all that had happened, where could he possibly get the idea that Kiche wanted to hear a stupid sob story. A flicker of disgust quickly flashed across Kiche's face before it returned to feigned stoicism. He could see why his father wanted him killed for speaking out —he was annoying when he spoke out. That Thanatos grew up in a pack full of violence did not surprise him. In fact, it reaffirmed the very belief that proliferated his bigotry. Clearly, Thanatos was just a sorry, stupid product of his environment. These little snippets curled the corner of Kiche's mouth in a cruel smirk, and he found himself mildly amused. "My language is merely a symptom of my time here with the savages. It's a sad truth, but I've learned to live with it." As he continued, compose began to return to the red saint as he fell back into the old habits he had thought he had abandoned. It was like donning an old cloak, wearing the comfortable, familiar skin he had longed for unknowingly. "But if you're looking for a new start, I suggest you do less talking and more thinking," he drawled in an icy cold tone.