OOC: Sorry for sweary parts!
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IC:
Si-
"Oh, of-fucking-course it is..." he muttered to himself, probably loudly enough to be heard. Dammit! The bastard Lord Monmouth probably was in no way related to this poor sap who happened to share his name, but even just the association with Simon's most hated nemesis was enough to put the man into a sour mood.
And...wait...a bust? Fuck, this was blackjack.
"This isn't Thanatosian poker? Fuck's sake I'm set up wrong on my betting strategy." He sighed heavily, mood souring quickly from off-center to annoyed. And that wasn't fair to Silas, was it? Not a bit. Still, he didn't want to explain, especially here where half the patrons were side eying him and the bartender looked like he was about to call the town guards. Of all the things that could happen, that'd be the worst, because they sure as shit wouldn't allow him to keep his mask on. Then it'd be a THING, and it would just be too much to never be able to come back to this town and-
Simon took a completely unnecessary but satisfyingly soothing deep breath and forced himself to calm down. If the dead could have a panic attack, he was working himself into one rather quickly. It'd be better to just leave and bunk down in the town stables for the night and get a move on in the morning, so he folded, then flipped a gold coin to Silas.
"Sorry; it's been a rough few weeks for me. For your troubles, and I'm sorry for the cursing," he added with a nod to the dealer. His ashen cloak swirled around him as he got up and stalked out. Was the drama necessary? No, but he wanted out from under the eyes of people as quickly as possible.
Horses didn't judge. Horses didn't make you feel less than human, or dangerous, or stupid. Horses didn't keep slaves or conduct cruel experiments on each other. Horses were better people than people. Simon couldn't remember half the journey to the stables, but once there, he slipped into his gelding's stall to brush and talk with his friend. The sweet Percheron was huge, patient, and attentive. Simon got a curry brush from his gear bag and began the quiet work of grooming the horse. In the comfort of the dark stable, he removed his mask and dropped the pretense of humanity. No more forced breathing, or making the small sounds of the living...he just let himself be, let the memories pass through him, and come out the other side maybe a little more whole for having faced them.