Chartreuse, clearly. On with the walking!

"The Nameless struggles to even walk. Is it a hatchling? A newborn pup?" Ponders Cilla, who you are starting to realize can't simply be a cloak, as you have seen those hat-trousers and a pair of boots attached near the bottom-half of their being.

"Yes? No? Kinda? Hey buddy, how old do you think you are?" Asks Ariel, who seems to be avoiding any glances at you.

Maybe its the burns again, people always avoid the burns. What burns? The burns from the crash. What crash? What is a crash?

More importantly, what is he avoiding glancing at?

"What... do I... look like?" You ask, keeping your voice to a whisper.

"A monster." Answers Ariel, unhelpful as ever.

"A massive, humanoid, draconic fae-folk, absurd really." Answers Cilla, whose descriptor may help any who knew those words, but you knew none of them.

You know nothing. You are nothing. Have been ever since she died. Who died? Who is she!?

"Shut up!" You yell aloud to the voices in your head, each scrambling to re-assemble your mind from tatters.

Leaving me alone, with you, me. Us.

"Fine, be like that, mongrel..." Mutters the cloaked figure.

Ariel steps in nearer to you, throwing a angered glare at the one caped in cloth. "Hey! He's having a hard time adjusting is all. Don't worry about how you look big guy, as long as I'm with yah, you'll be fine."

You'll be fine, that's what they all said! They never stopped saying it, even at her funeral... WHO SAID WHAT!? WHAT'S A FUNERAL?!

You dash off, head in hands, with me telling you what's happening in the moment. You long to claw me from our mind, but you need me. Finally, you reach a small pond, not listening as the others call to you. You peer over into the surface of the pond, seeing the visage of a stranger within.

Bone-white skin across a semi-handsome, clean-shaven face, a full head of shoulder length crimson colored hair, eyes red as a fresh flame. An attribute you hold no fragmented memory of however, is that of the scales across the body of this man, focused where body-hair should be; each colored the shade of the darkest shadows. The scales gather at the neck as well, moving up and under the jawline, crowning just above it. The stranger stands at around six'four, maybe an inch taller or shorter; his musculatur suggests he is a sprinter or swimmer. At the ends of each finger are claws, just like on your hands... our hands...

"Our... hands?" You whisper, peering down at yourself, seeing the truth I wished to show us.

We are the stranger, and we are a stranger to all, even ourselves.

Your chest seizes, your breathing dulls and dies, and the world focuses around you before spiralling out of any semblance of reason or understanding. The calling of our guardian and would-be killer turned guide go unheard by you, but not to me, as we both tumble down into the dirt.

"Awaiting a hit of that sweet, sweet oblivion, baby."