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[justify][font=arial] He's cold.
That, of course, is a given even in the midst of summer's sticky heat. Blood pumps sluggishly through collapsing veins, his heart beats like a funeral procession - his body thus, inadequately provided for by the rotting organs within, is unnaturally cold to the touch. He's used to it by now. The passing years have given him time to adjust.
Blue-tinged paws bear bloody bones where the thin skin of his knuckles have since peeled away, pus-dripping lesions in his muzzle rip dangling holes in his jowls to reveal blackened teeth. His fur is matted, his bones jutting, his face worn. It is not beautiful. He is not beautiful - but again, he's had plenty of time to accept this truth. His rotting body is nothing more than a corpse too stubborn to give in to mother earth's hands, a machine that only functions to carry his soul until it can find solace in a body that lives. It would be ironic for him to claim that appearances were something of importance to him.
He's used to clans of every kind and caliber. He hails from Sunclan but had wandered for months, years - to the point where he'd lost count of just how many places he'd seen. Perhaps now, after a good year of silence, he'd finally find a place that soothed his wanderlust and offered him a home; the likelihood was slim even if he wanted to settle down.
"Kavinsky. Joining." Each word is ground out with force, firm deliberation. As he scans the landscape he frankly cannot bring himself to be fazed by the border display - the corpses, the neo-religious crosses staggered across the landscape, the scent of it all. He was meant to die with them, to rot in the sun and return to the earth that made him; after all this time he might even want to. How could he do anything but envy their lifeless faces now?