Itharius's claws clatter along the ground as he prances around the large room, the one large room comprising Stitches' new abode. Stitches himself stares in at the place, a hollowness in his eyes, as if he's only barely perceiving his surroundings, the floor pattern, the roughmade but sturdy wooden furniture, the bed tucked in the corner, and the tables full of plates at the top of the steps near the back of what he can only assume was intended to be a hall of some sort. He glanced left, and right then, eyeing the many pieces of mismatched decorations and housing items, useful or otherwise. He steps forward, his boots clomping the ground, quietly though, as if he in general holds less weight. His feet carry him along the room, walking slowly and hunched, like he's a part dead, and perhaps he may be.
Stitches fools with his cloak, long, tattered, dirty as it is, allowing himself easier movement of his arms as he traced the edges of the hall by it's hardy walls, frowning at the site of all the books. Books everywhere, so many bookshelves, such a place for an intellectual mind. He stops himself at a large black bookcase at the far end of the room, and drags his withered finger along the book spines until he stops on one, nonspecific red leather bound book, and pulls it from the shelf. He opens it, and flips through the dusty, parchment smelling pages time and time again. With each page he gets more tense, turning a new one, searching desperately for anything he could understand. All at once it hits him, and enraged he toss the book to the floor haphazardly, the sound of the fluttering pages and abused binding sending Itharius's hiding on the other end of the room.
Stitches sets his sights back on the bookshelf, looking at the menagerie of things he will never comprehend, here to torment him, here to remind him that after all, after everything he went through, he's nothing more than useless. Another thing of life he will never crack, another aspect that will haunt him, because all he can accomplish is to train for something important, and get lost. Panting, grunting, hands furiously grasping, he rips books from their prelonged housing, tearing out pages and tossing them in heaps on the ground. He grits his teeth as the voice in his head begins to drown out everything else, Itharius's claws skidding across the floor, the distant bird chirping outside, the otherwise present silence of the room, and his book casting fest. It's his voice, and it isn't, simultaneously. He's mocking himself, he's angry with himself. Book after book, word after word, his eyes leak a river across angered cheeks, painting streaks down his face as they dry. He tears so hard at the bindings of the books his overgrown fingernails crack, and begin to bleed. With a deep breath he yanks the last book off the shelf and readies himself to throw it, glancing briefly at the cover, on which he spies the shape of a heart, not entirely unknown to him. Stitches takes the book in both hands and looks upon it, it's brown, mundane, ordinary, and it holds a heart as a crest in black ink on the front. Stitches stares at this for some time. This is not unknown to him, he knows what it is, but it's unknown to him, because just like himself, he thinks...
What good does it do?
