Jakir comes awake with a start, rolling over onto his stomach as the world spins above him. He shuts his eyes to quell the headache forming in his mind. As he draws in a breath, he notices something wrong. The air tastes wrong in his mouth, and his blood doesn't rush with the relief that is usually tied to the action. Attributing the sense of wrongness to his headache, he draws his knee's up and tries to rise. Another breath clears his head just enough for him to open his eyes. The sharp contrast of the earth to blood around it steals the short moment of clarity away. He could see every facet of the stones in the ground, pick out each individual detail of the blade of grass next to him, and watch every ripple of the puddle a few feet away.<br/><br/>He takes in a deep breath as the reality of the situation sinks in. He slams a fist down on the ground, making a deep imprint in the ground as he struggles not to scream. He didn't even have anywhere to go for the morning. He struggled for a few more moments before getting a hold of himself. He reaches over and picks up his sword from the mud, standing to his feet. He swings the blade sharply, spraying the dirt and blood that coated the blade onto the ground in a small crescent. As his thoughts ran chaotic through his head, he turns and begins trecking slowly down the forest path, away from the village; Away from his hideout; Away from his life.