[[open post!]]
Lusk creeps from within the confines of the healer's abode, reeking of dust and decay, medicinal undertones stinging at the nostrils of the fellow syndicate cats that brush by him, never close enough to really touch his broad form. None of them are recognizable, all strangers under his warped gaze. It fails to unsettle him, regardless of how alien the surroundings are when your main source of navigation happens to be your sense of smell.
It's a brief, fleeting thought, but the faces of long-since passed cats burn their way into his mind, dissipating after a second. He can't smell them, isn't sure if he'd even be able to after so long. He tells himself it's fine. None of them were friends to begin with. Neomora, Hazel, and who was it...? He can't recall the name of the tom who'd spent moons alongside him within the healer's den, his only aid whilst the syndicate still had cats attacking others from clans, larger in numbers, and for what? Some sense of pride? He'd be having none of it.
He supposes, at the end of it all, his frustrations stem from the fact that he just doesn't find himself all that fond of fighters -- and likely never will.
Curling his tail over his paws, he settles into his own thoughts, basking in what's left of the early fall sun.