Click, click, click, click, Sav listened to the fading footsteps of the General, watched the fading sun glint against the back of his scarlet and golden jacket as he walked away. Flexing the burned ruins of his hands, he imagined coiling his charcoal banners around the fat throat of the patch-faced ringleader until his one good eye popped out of his skull.
"No. That one is mine, my son," the voice whispered to his thoughts. Resigned, Savian turned and walked to his cart.
It was a dismal thing, his cramped confines at the back end of the Circus train. Splintered wood, a leaky ceiling, a lumpy pallet and a broken mirror were the totality of his chambers. At least it was dark. Savian could not ask for much more.
He lit a single taper and beheld his broken reflection upon the wall. The shattered fragments of the looking glass scattered his being and a thousand icy eyes stared back through the frame. The lone flame danced in the shadows, tracing the edges of Savian's jaw.
He'd grown pale and gaunt since his dealings with the cloaked man. His limbs were naught but withered flesh and bone, yet still he retained unnatural strength and balance. The skin of his face stretched tight over his jaw and cheekbones; he looked not unlike a skull veiled by a paper-thin mask. What have I become?
"What you were born to be," the voice whispered.
Savian snuffed the candle and walked off the halted train. The sun had set and a gloomy dusk settled upon the camp. Nightfall would see the train rolling again, Sinestro eager to reach the next performance ahead of schedule.
He turned to see the pompous General issuing more commands in that no-nonsense tone of his. A fallen angel, eh? he thought, vaguely amused. As I recall, they aren't the best news for Heaven.
Flexing his ruined hands, he set out into the gathering night in search of some unlucky ravens.