Sailing the breeze - Printable Version +- 'Souls IPB Archive (November 2007–October 2012) (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb) +-- Forum: Dead IC (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb/forumdisplay.php?fid=110) +--- Forum: Dead Topics (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb/forumdisplay.php?fid=21) +--- Thread: Sailing the breeze (/showthread.php?tid=3615) |
- Regan de Morte - 09-25-2008 [html] [/html] - Laruku Tears - 09-25-2008 [html]
Hello!
It was like another set of chains in a way. Another place of mystery and fog that he could not leave, though the things that held him back were easier to understand than the things that had tied him in place in the past. "The winter would kill you," he'd been told. "You wouldn't survive." He couldn't pretend that he could still stand on his own anymore, but it was less a pride issue and more of that old self-disgust and self-hatred. Why should anyone else burden themselves with his existence there? This pack had no obligation. These trees were not his family. This fog was still not familiar. And he didn't want to be there. Laruku was on four legs because it was easier to balance that way. It had been weeks since he had last seen anything, but he still felt unaccustomed and stupid. Vulnerable and weak. Staying unshifted in a pack full of humanized werewolves did not help and the voices all towered over him, but he found it preferable to feeling along tree trunks to find his way through unfamiliar territory. Honestly, he had never felt so goddamn self-conscious in all his life. It was too much irony for him to handle. The coyotewolf made his way back towards the sickly cabin because he had no where else to be. He didn't know where Ahren was, or where Rachias was, or where anyone else was, but it wasn't like he could offer much aside from bleak conversation anyway. He could not help build a house, and he could not help hunt or cook. The breeze was against him and he heard no noise, so he sat by the fire none the wiser of someone else's presence. He was a blind man that was not used to being blind. - Regan de Morte - 09-25-2008 Hey! [html] [/html] - Laruku Tears - 09-26-2008 [html]
Both his tattered ears flicked forward when she stood, and he immediately understood that she had been there all along. In his head, there was laughter again, but he expected that. Vaguely, he found it disturbing to realize that he was more wary when the laughter was gone and there was only silence. The politeness of the stranger in notifying him of her presence bothered him more than it probably should have, and even knowing full well why that was didn't shake the feeling. It was a cliche sort of feeling, but he didn't want their kindness, their manners, their ill-invested obligation, their pity. His ears swooped back again when she spoke, and he found himself shrugging.
I suppose I live here,he answered, not sure if she really cared to know why he only supposed so. At least for the while.At least for the winter, at least until they let him leave, which very well may be never, but he could still tell himself otherwise. Perhaps in the spring, he could go back to his own damn cabin, wherever that was. If Rachias wanted to come, then she would come. If Ahren wanted to come, then he would as well. If they wanted to bother with him, then there wasn't much he could do about that, but Esper Hollow had nothing to do with him. It was all just circumstance. Laruku,he introduced plainly. He thought for a moment that she sounded familiar, but the feeling was gone as soon as he realized it. Why cross an ocean?He had never been a wanderer himself. - Regan de Morte - 09-26-2008 You replied already, oops! O_O Ignore me. I was gonna re-write my post, but screw it haha. [html] [/html] - Laruku Tears - 09-26-2008 [html] Sorry,he said automatically, though it might have sounded emptier than it should have. He was sorry, but by now he had apologized enough times for the word not to mean much whether this woman knew that or not. It was his automatic response to everything, and it was true, but even true things stopped meaning anything when overused. Too-frequent "I love yous" were just as worthless as the things that were never said, perhaps. He could hear the scratching in the sand and could only wonder what was there. I always did like short stories better,the scarred man told her, They read faster and only leave the most important things in.Oh, how quaint and metaphoric. Weren't shorter lives the better ones after all? She sounded young, or at least, younger than himself, though Laruku felt a thousand years old and probably sounded like it too. Long stories have too much opportunity to mess up somehow. - Regan de Morte - 09-26-2008 [html] [/html] - Laruku Tears - 09-26-2008 [html]
It was easy to understand why pity and concern were unwanted most of the time. People liked to deny that anything had ever been wrong to begin with; they liked to think that they were fine, that they were taking care of themselves, and that they didn't need any help. But long lives were like long stories; tragedies were inevitable for anything that lasted longer than a few chapters, a few months. Eventually, something bad would happen, and they would never forget. That was life. And that was why scars criss-crossed his forearms though most were faded and worn now, half-hidden in rust-colored fur, but never invisible, never gone. Laruku ceded his own almost-a-smile.
I'm not good at telling stories either,he said, and even the explanation of why was a long story in itself. He'd lived too long. He'd been there too long. I don't know,was his truthful answer. A month maybe. Month and a half. I was sick,so close to dying. A friend,a lover, brought me here. And I don't really have anywhere else to be.His first lie of the evening, though that was subjective. He had a place to be -- a graveyard surrounded by a different fog in a different forest. A cabin further east where no one would disturb him (and where he would disturb no one else). He had a lot of places to be: any place that wasn't there, he could be. |