A undefinate image sat in the back of Darilan's mind, covered in fog. The picture connected to the Goron. As the Goron spoke, that haze lifted. What he saw was the Goron, lying in a box built of weathered wood, just large enough to fit him. The Goron was motionless, morbid, the pale light turning his skin from the lively amber-brown to a sickly grey. Although the suspected criminal spoke in cheerful degradation to Grenada, the picture still hung.

Before he knew what happened, Grenada had his sword to the Goron's throat and let out his anger in words Darilan didn't listen to, only heard. The sound of the words was the wooden lid of the coffin slamming down over the motionless body.

Another quick transition, and the left foot was gone. A mallet, swung by an unseen wielder, a shadow figure, pounded down the rusty clinchers, forever making the death more real, more inevitable.

Darilan immediately tied the imagery to the death of his grandfather, an old but remarkably healthy man, one of many wiped out by the Hyrulian Epidemic ten years ago. He didn't want to believe he was dead, but each nail in his coffin, each shovel of dirt in his grave made it all the more real. He had not as much care for the Goron, not nearly, but it was still unsettling. As Grenada did his thing, he could only stay in his world.

The time blood covered everything was a time of revelation. The dead sun in his living metaphor of this event spins around to the opposite side of what it was on, and shows the face of the mallet man. At first all he notices are the blood red eyes, the only thing alive in the picture. Then he sees everything, Darilan Somstren, serious, set face, swinging that mallet with slow but efficient motion. He tried to stop himself, but he couldn't. It was almost over. The mallet nailed the last clincher; Grenada cut the throat, and all he could do was stand, feeling sick.

He barely heard Grenada say that his robe was ruined, and all he could thing to say came out automatically, above a whisper, "I'm sorry."

Inspirational Music (Listening To): "The Clincher" by Chevelle

Outside of a quiet:

"It's not you fault."

Grenada didn't really notice, and it seemed each was in a stupor. He led, if it could be called that, the way back toward the elder in a slow trod, and didn't notice the heat, nor distance traveled, and he wouldn't have noticed whether or not Darilan was following him. He draped the robe over his shoulder, taking it farther from his heart, and likewise his mind. Leaving the desert, he barely registered that he had more footing, and he was thankful. He mind eased and the tension slowly released the further he got from the spot of the deed...

OOC: That post was crazy, Shadow... So ridiculously good. I love it!

Darilan kneels in front of the headless Goron. The dead face would forever be burned in his head. A though echoed through his head. What if he wasn't the right Goron?
(wasn't the right Goron?)
He matched the description, but the doubt lingered, and the seed grew.

It's my fault.

OOC: I am so glad to see that the rust is clearing from my head. Your last post was excellent, MG.