01-10-2010, 11:30 PM
Set in The Sugarwoods. Open to anyone.
[html]
[html]
Here he was again, on this Gods forsaken strip of land with nothing but a half empty bottle of dry Canadian whiskey to his name. He never put a name to the foul liquid, merely relished in the relief it brought with the inevitable inebriation. It lifted him to a different place, and offered him a few moments of solace that he would not otherwise find in this world, and gave him an excuse to be a real bastard, not just by title alone. There had been a few brave souls who tried to approached the estranged man, but he waved them away with a threatening sweep of the bottle, growling obscenities that would make any hardened sailor cringe. He suffered from no ill wounds, nor did he find himself starving to death. Despite his addiction, he minded himself enough to hunt, and to keep himself nourished so that his miserable life could continue suckling from the hard liquor that was once readily supplied. The strangers would often try again, but ultimately failed. He was a man who wanted no help. He had conned the unconnable into believing he deserved this, every single bit of it. Besides, trust brought nothing but pain in the end, so he was better off without the assistance of some noble stranger.[/html]
He drifted drunkenly through the woodland, using his free hand to catch himself on the trunks of trees, leaning and swaying more than the windswept branches above. Locke let his eyes drift upward, to the gray skies, and frowned at the snow that made a brief appearance as the wind cut another swath through the leaves. The weather was wholly unbearable this time of year, made worse by his lack of resources, or gang to keep him company. Beneath the haze that the alcohol created for him, he felt the bitter sting of loneliness; he missed his wife, his gang, and in this particular moment, Chains. What he wouldn't give for the conniving, vile old man's advice right now. Even if it ended in a swift beating. Chains never approved of copious consumption of alcohol without proper reason. Now, a proper reason would be celebration, or perhaps a fond farewell to a friend. This moping, self-pitied state he was in was not proper; it wasn't even sane.
Locke steadied himself against the maple. He stared off into the snowy woods for a moment, before deciding against going any further. He slid down the trunk of the tree and settled himself between the roots. He leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the silence with all the attention of a delinquent at church. No, Locke's mind was elsewhere, in an entirely different time and place. The surroundings morphed and changed into the caverns that the gang called home. One alcove in particular stood out from the rest. Strewn about the floor in a semi organized manner were animal skins, arranged individually for each soul that called it their own. Two were closer together than the rest; where the twins slept at night. Another was off near the fire: Seles' bed. He remembered them all as children, himself included, huddled by the fire on the colder nights, and listening intently to Chains as he went over another lesson; as he worked tirelessly over his masterpiece. As he sculpted and painted them with the finesse of an expert thiefmaker.
His gray eyes snapped open, and his gaze met with the monochrome of the winter wood once more. His head swam, and he placed his forehead in his hands, muttering something incoherent. He stared down at the disturbed snow, wishing it would all just go away.