every artist is a cannibal every poet is a thief
#12
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There was a lot of history he didn't know and more still that he might never know. His mother had been old and she had been through and done a lot. The clan she had helped found had been dragged through time in a similar fashion, with blood and tears. It was the same for pretty much everyone else. There would always be a past because time never stopped, but they were still individuals weren't they? Arkham didn't know about any of it so he couldn't think to imitate it. Maybe madness ran in his blood, but he didn't know that either. Did it matter? Probably not, but while the cruelty and madness seemed to already run thick in his brother, he was yet an untainted child as far as anyone else could tell.



He was disappointed that he could not be provided with a name, but he couldn't hold it against the grey wolf. If he didn't know then he didn't know, right? But he smiled too when the other did; it would appear that there was a mutual fondness for the black lady and a friend in common was always a good thing, right? Arkham cocked his head, If she's yer son's mum, doesn't that make her yer mate? It was silly that he had that nuclear family equation in his head; after all, was his own father his mother's mate? He didn't even know. Did they have to live together to be? Were there other requirements? It just seemed like such a comfortable term and so appropriate. If only he knew.



How d'y'find y'self? It seemed like a strange thing to set off and do. And back to that fishing thing. No, he didn't like getting wet, but he knew he would need to start learning to hunt for himself soon. He wanted independence just as much as any other kid, but he had known that he had to grow into it. Was he there yet? Was it time to learn yet? He didn't know. The ocean's too big, he said, R'there other places to fish? He had yet to stumble over a river in his short life.

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