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He remembered, once, being caught in a storm that was really wind more than it was rain. The relentless tempest tore through the isle unexpectedly, kicking up sand and rocks as gray clouds rolled over the horizon. He could recall a tickle of rain over his shoulders as the sprinkling began, but what really plagued his mind was the grains of white sand on the beach, swirling around him in an unnatural dance of vileness. A day spent by the water was nowhere near unnatural when it came to his life on the isle, for the ocean was one of the only constant forces of his life, alongside the unforgiving weather and his significant lack of luck. The only time it has effected him so negatively was when the bad wind cut in, and he found himself surrounded by sand, trapped. Into his eyes, his ears, in between his teeth. He could feel the grains on his gums and going down his throat. The stones which flew through the air knocked against his frame as he wobbled unsure toward some form of shelter. When he's finally reached solace, he can remember hacking up mud and rubbing at his swollen eye.
That was the first time getting a black eye, but whether it be from running into objects due to his panicked stupor or getting hit in the face by projectiles, it wasn't his last. Someone had loaned him a mirror when he asked, so Aristotle was situated somewhere outside of camp, staring at his reflection from the mirror he perched on a large rock. Blinking pale eyes toward the sight, he resisted the urge to cringe, mouth twisting into a frown. He inspected the bruise over his left eye, the purple mass fading with each passing day. It was getting better, he knew that, but it has yet to disappear. His reflection put him at unease, though he wanted to observe his healing process nonetheless. He didn't want to lose an eye or something, after all.
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