the mouths are choking

[Lockeheed]

Marked as mature for language.

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Hunkered down under the washed out roots of an ancient pine was Lockeheed, eyes glazed over, and mouth drawn down in a frown. He'd lit out of Halifax after his chance meeting with Haven, and now found himself feeling even worse for wear. The guilt, which previously encompassed the family he had failed to save, now included Haven and all of Cour de Miracles. The elephant on his chest had duplicated somehow into another, bigger elephant, and try as he might to shove them into the corner, he just didn't have it in him. The lonely man had nothing else to focus on, especially with the now gnawing absence of alcohol. The pack that had previously sheltered him for such a short time would likely not be as welcoming the second time around because of his sudden, unexplained disappearance before, and now with his terrible attitude towards everything in general. Then again, no one, aside from Haven of course, had even known about him to begin with. Locke was just a shadow on the wall.



He just couldn't be fucked caring at this point.



Leaning back against the earthy wall, he brought his hands up to draw his coat closer around his wiry form. His build offered precious little in the way of protection from the cold. So he reckoned he could at least be thankful for his clothes, which had surprisingly had few holes, or worn patches for all the traveling he had done. The colorful fabric of his bandanna (and all the feathers and trinkets attached to it), however, suffered with the wet of the rain and snow. The feathers would have to be replaced at some points, and the fabric was losing the vibrant colors that it previously had. But through it all, it kept his head warm, and his fur dry. His ears (which poked through two holes carefully formed in the otherwise uniform headpiece) brushed against the familiar fabric as he flattened them, and closed his eyes for a brief rest.

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