The first thing that Shura knew, absolutely knew, was that this wasn't home. Home was cold, white, biting wind, and overcast skies. Home was furs and the smell of pine and cedar. Wood and... well. This wasn't home. Not at all.
That was the first thing. The second being, beyond that Shura didn't know where he was, was that there were two bodies near by. Strangers he didn't know, whose faces had been broken and cracked. Skin peeled off and tossed aside like a wet towel. The dirt of the road was dark and splattered away from the limp corpses. Fresh and warm. So fresh. The blood called to him. It always did. Had for as long as Shura had memories. More a mother to him than his own, who had cast him out to the cold shortly after he'd been born.
Then, beyond his bloody hands, his clothes were ruined. Again. Shura stood, since he'd been crouching, and looked down at his ripped and bloodstained button up shirt and frowned. What had happened? What'd he do? And not another damn shirt. It wasn't like he had a change of clothes floating around – his red eyes briefly looked at the bodies nearby – before immediately discarding the idea of taking their clothes. One was a woman, and while he didn't mind wearing the occasional dress now and then, hers had been torn open at the back where something had been plunged into it.
Something. Something. The murmur in his mind was teasing and suggestive. They all knew what that something was. Shura had obviously killed the two people. Had put something big and sharp in the woman's back and ripped out bones through the man's side. His clothes were worse off than Shura's, which immediately meant that was not an option either.
With dried blood on his hands, he palmed at his eyes. There was pressure on the inside of his skull, like someone tapping on his temples. Trying to get his attention. Hey, hey. See what you did?
Well, obviously he did. He'd been crouching near them, blood splattered. Clothes torn like he might've been in a scuffle. Though, to be frank, that could've been from a different scuffle. Or he could've torn them himself in a bout of nervousness.
That and there wasn't anyone else around. Yes, yes, he knew that. He didn't need told. Shura could see for himself, they didn't need to point that out.
So. Now that he was aware of what he'd done – aware? Hardly – he should... do something with the bodies. The ditch? There was a ditch. The road was nice enough and the ditch would serve. The blood was noticeable, mind, but a day or two of weather would... well, would do whatever. He wouldn't be there. He should find home, right?
Where the fuck was home? How had he gotten so far... Well, that was a stupid question. Shura just ended up in places that he didn't want to be, or did he? What had he been doing? Sighing softly at his own inability to remember, though it was more out of resigned acceptance, he waved a hand and the woman's body jerkily started to crawl itself towards the ditch. Her blood was still cooling, and thus could be a suitable tool for Shura. Why expend his own energy when hers was perfectly acceptable?
His other hand made a shooing motion toward the broken man and he twitched, bones crunching and cracking, as his corpse jerked in ways it was not meant to in order to comply with Shura's command. It was the blood responding to him, after all. The flesh and bones hardly mattered so much. They were but a vehicle for his source.
It really was a shame Shura didn't pay better attention to his surroundings. Incapable of multitasking, unable to hear more than the conversation he was having with himself and the crack of corpses moving themselves across what he thought was an empty road, outside a city.
During the afternoon.
It wasn't like he'd have made a better plan, anyways. Shura didn't have foresight, not like that.