Teaching an old dog new tricks.

[Satellites]

Men are not immune to the same fears of women--atleast, not all fears. Aging was much the same, and no one felt the effects of aging as strongly as Alexander Kanashia. He was now entering his late thirties, and he was beginning to show. The long, platinum hair that he used to have so much pride in was now a sad gray, and constantly wore in a ponytail. In the past months, he had even taken to wearing a hat, which was something he could not stand to do growing up.

It was time for a change. There was no-need for him to cling to the ideals of a past he spent years holding onto, or taking such pride in an appearance that was more for nobles of centuries ago. The family name no-longer held the same power it used to, with his own inability to stay within his native country's hold. It was useless to wear the long coats, because there was nothing to hide; no reason to cover scars that were only in his mind.

It was why that Alexander stood outside of the meetinghouse where he had stayed the night, and stared into a barrel full of rain-water, and getting fuller with each passing hour. The rain had not let up in weeks, and had done nothing but downpour since he had arrived into Myrkentown yesterday morning. It was an unnatural flooding, but at the moment, it was the farthest thing from his mind.

A dagger was held tightly in his right hand, and with his left, he pulled the ponytail of gray to the side of his head, watching himself in the distorted, rippling reflection of the barrel. Never had he cut his hair before in such a drastic fashion, never had he been brave enough, or felt the desire to turn his back on his old-ways. It was a dangerous move to his traditions, and the start of a personal revolution that had been threatening his mind since he first left Myrken two years ago.

A hand that never shook when it took a life, was now trembling to a point it made it hard for Alexander to make the fateful swipe with the blade. He closed his eyes and said a prayer to a God continents away, and let the blade slice through the ponytail. A forearm's length of hair fell into the barrel of rain-water, making him unable to see what damage he had done to the past.

He raked his fingers through the new, pushing the free locks of hair out of his face and felt the wet ends cling to his neck, and go no further. Quietly he cried against the barrel, with choked apologies to the past.