He had come for some company, to hear voices that didn't originate from his mind. Of course there would be consequences, there always were. Sometimes they were worth it; however, it was doubtful this was one of those times. Pain was often sowed in his wake but he wasn't egotistical enough to think he was unique in this aspect: what he felt he was unique in was enjoying how it made him feel. It was different each time but when such a thing was introverted as it was now... it was sublime. It wasn't the nothing of solitude he would claim to love but a repetitive self-destruction he knew he deserved even even as he both fought against and embraced it.
Stubbornness and conviction left his hands bloodied again, something he would never apologize for. Many times he had considered if these values were specifically tied to him so that the routine might be played over and over: an excellent excuse for violence and drama in a life that went years knowing nothing but silence and the ease of survival. If finally recognized it as such, would he reject it or embrace it? This would depend on mood, most likely, and change the next season. He knew better yet knew so well he wouldn't stop it: there was a sickness that these people were the catalyst of except this time there was no joy included. Not even a moment before things seemed to crumble under him.
Perhaps it was getting worse. The thought both intrigued and frightened the half-dragon as he perched upon a low branch, jade eyes watching a man who had come out to collect some fungus, herbs, and scratchings of bark. Why was he allowed out here and why had those signs been removed? Hok had become used to being the outsider but for a short moment he felt there might had been the chance of sharing some values with others. Some peace may have come if his conviction was shared or embraced; however, it was scorned and barely tolerated. How long until this darker influence saturated him to the point that he would just put an arrow into the herbalist nearby or worse yet descended and covered himself in the man's blood? Not long. Not long at all if he kept doing this to himself.
Nightmares were promised to him now: did the madwoman really feel that would sway him? Most likely, since it seemed he was generalized with those other folk. In reality he would accept them like his own dreams of regret and blood; however, not in the same spirit of masochism and pseudo-redemption. He would challenge them as he's done all the perceived misunderstandings aimed at him. It had been two nights without sleep: he knew the limit well in which his own manifestations wouldn't wake him and it was time. When darkness fell, Hokwing would embrace sleep this night.