He wraps the tattered remains of his cloak around him, struggling to drive the bitter cold of this arctic planet away and failing. The frizzy black hair that lies like a defeated army on top of his head is wet, but only from the sleet that pours down from the skies like a dark warning of doom.
His eyes are closed tight, as if rejecting the dank and dark world surrounding him, the shadow filling the galaxy with it's hatred and despair. The shadow that chokes him, like a dark vise wrapped tightly around his throat.
As the latest sleetstorm ends, he opens his eyes, then pulls from his cloak a crude instrument of rock and rope, a makeshift knife. Gathering his resolve, he drives the knife into his arm.
A cry shakes him as blood seeps out from the gaping wound. He lifts his head to the heavens, letting out a scream that could shatter angel's wings. The splitting of his flesh is merely an excuse for him to vent his fury, rage, and shame.
Suddenly his hair turns gold, his eyes turn green. His rage seems to fill the dark areas around them, filling them with light, destroying the dark and gloomness.
And then his hair returns to normal. His eyes close, and he sits once more, the knife retreating to the darkness of its abode. The blood from his wound stops flowing, and becomes a scar, joining many self-inflicted ones like itself.
The Saiyan sits there, alone in the cold and dark.