Big, friendly giant

Jimson Morris · 09-12-2012, 05:25 PM

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Word count: 665 // Since you didn't, I'm gonna note here that this is backdated to September 1 :3. I am wordy today! o.o

Jimson had been walking most of the morning, fighting his way through the most recent tangle of thick forest he in which he had found himself. He found himself reminiscing for the forests back home -- the trees here seemed overcrowded, the vegetation thicker and more difficult to get through. At home he might have to worry about disentangling himself from blackberry brambles, but for the most part the woods weren't quite as dense and were a good deal easier to navigate. Or maybe it was just because he was tired -- he'd been walking for the better part of six months, not in any particular hurry, but still on the move most of the time. He had never been any sort of traveler, always staying at home to watch after the sheep or tend to the small garden his family owned. The furthest he'd ever traveled was to the little bazaar his community put on once a month, hauling wool and skin and cheese made from sheep's milk to trade with the other farmers.

He cursed as a vine wrapped itself around the bottom of his staff, which had served more than anything as a walking stick since he left, and jerked at the weapon to try to free it. When his tugs were met with resistance, he gave one might pull and when the stick came loose, crashed to the ground. "Damn it all," he muttered, pulling himself to a sitting position. The great white dog breathed a sigh of relief as he reassured himself that the bow and the quiver full of arrows that had been strapped to his back were all still in one piece. Not that he was any good with the ranged weapons, but he usually managed to strike down enough game to keep from starving to death and if they were broken, he did not know how to make more.

Jimson rose unsteadily and rubbed his rump, his pride wounded. That fall had hurt more than it really should have. The fluffy dog poked his staff around on the ground and was rewarded with patches of concrete that had been consumed by the rabid vegetation up here. City coming up, then. He had been in absolute awe the first time he'd come across the ruins of one of the human urban centers; now they were old hat, although they were useful for scavenging supplies. He continued toward the city with that thought in mind, and soon the forest thinned out and he could see low houses and shops through the trees. He headed toward one of the shops, stepping carefully to avoid tripping over any broken pieces of concrete or stepping on anything sharp. He'd learned that lesson in the first abandoned city, as well, when he'd sliced open one of his paw pads and had spent almost a week nursing the damn thing until he was able to walk again.

Now, peering in through the windows, he found a shop that appeared to have cans and jars on the shelves and let himself into the dusty space through the loose front door that squeaked loudly on its hinges. The sun filtering in through the grimy windows gave him enough light to see by, and he perused the shelves of cans, every once in a while picking one up and depositing it in the messenger bag that hung at his hip. Nearing one of the windows, Jimson accidentally knocked a few cans down in the process of pulling one off the shelf. He sighed and bent, gathering the cans in his arms. When he straightened back up, he came face to face with a small (compared to himself, anyway), foxy face staring in the window at him. He cried out and dropped the cans he was holding in surprise, one of them landing squarely on his toes. "Ah, dammit!" he cried, picking his foot up too quickly and throwing himself off-balance, finding himself once again on his rump.

Table credit Raze.

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