[fancypost borderwidth=0px; width:500px; text-align:justify; font-size:10pt]He can't quite recall how many times the sun has awoke and slept since he last saw her face. He's not very good with time, and he never has been. He feels weeks are months and months as years, and his portrayal of time would likely leave him aging to a much greater number than his true age, and perhaps that's why he carries himself with the weight of ancient souls and why his eyes portray a scene of eternal pain from what he has seen in his lifespan.
Each second is a tick on a clock, but to him, time is not important. Time tends to fade into nothingness when you have seen your first born be taken in a matter of seconds, a friend die slowly for hours, a loved one take your own life in milliseconds, deaths happening like dominos falling for years. Time is irrelevant to Bane, and his portrayal of it is selfish in how he only cares what the weight of time is on him, and not time itself as a singular unbiased number.
And so Wolfsbane determines it's been many months since he has seen her. He can neither recall when, clearly, or what their last interaction exactly was. See, fate had ripped them apart as many often times as it did push them back together, and Bane liked to see such an image likened to a picture of an angry tide.
Nevertheless, he supposed it lacked a weight of importance. Afterall, they always ended up finding one another again, and he supposed this was just another one of those times.
His scent lingered of DarkClan and BloodClan, but the great tiger did not seem to notice the fact that RiverClan and BloodClan were enemies, nor did he necessarily care. No one was going to stop him from seeing the only breathing soul he now recognized on this planet. Everyone else was dead or missing, all of his old flames, his kin, spouses, friends, or even enemies. No face was familiar to Bane anymore. He needed to see her- to know that, yes, she was alive, and he was alive too. He had had no reason to wake from the slumber of death this time, unlike the other times when he found himself rising from his grave. Those times, he had risen because of his restless soul, yearning and roaring to be with the ones he loved, to tend to his children, protect his spouse, defend his friends or battle his enemies. But this time? He was not responsible for his own awakening. His spirit had not been restless in his grave because he knew all his loved ones were dead. So why did he wake? He didn't know, and frankly, he was filled with bitterness and rage towards a God he did not believe in. Why was he awoken? Why must he suffer more? Fuck fate. Fuck the tide and the God he did not pray to. He had no purpose.
And so he hoped she would give him that purpose again.
"Wolfsbane Forrester," The brute rumbled. "Is Sylmae Winzor here?"
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