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+---- Thread: squeezin' until they crack a windpipe [ return ] (/showthread.php?tid=7583)
squeezin' until they crack a windpipe [ return ] - adomania - 11-03-2018
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There were many things that Des cared about. He cared about people, first and foremost, hoping to make everyone as content as he could with his limited abilities no matter where his paws took him. He had lived a harsh life himself, but enough experience had handed him the ability to save others from the same fate that had befallen him. There was little Des could do to help himself anymore, little he thought he could do to clear a name so tarnished... but everything he did was done with a purpose, and that purpose was as good hearted as they came.
He also cared about art. Not just drawing, but everything. Culture, music, dance... it defined a person when he had nothing else left, and Des had spent many nights thinking back on his past, how it shaped him, and how the arts had helped move him there. Music had gotten him through a lot, even if the guitar on his back was long gone, worn down by weather, age and time.
He never cared much for reunions, though, but it helped that he wasn’t quite sober while doing this. It wouldn’t be the first time he came back to a place, but that didn’t mean much when he could count the times he returned to something on one hand.
And yet he was here, peering into the darkness in hopes of finding… something. There was nothing specifically he wanted to see (although seeing nothing at al would have been more welcome than he cared to admit) and yet he continued looking, standing there and feeling his thoughts sink further down into the darkest part of his mind. A part of him wanted to stay, but a stronger, louder part of him wanted to run before anyone found him here, looking back upon the past like there was anything there worth salvaging. The people here weren’t bad, even if much of them were questionable, but it wasn’t that which made him question his decision to come back. No, it was his own demons, paired with the idea that he didn’t deserve to be anywhere near people who were halfway on the path to decent.
He could have stayed lost. The idea had plagued him for much longer than just the present moment, spanning all the way back to the first time he decided it was a decent idea to plant his roots somewhere. No matter where he stayed, however, his roots never grew. There was too much trauma associated with the idea of staying somewhere for longer than a few months at most, even if the people he met along the way were nice enough to offer that he could stay. They didn’t know anything, though. They all thought him a better man than he actually was, so it was easy to take it all in with a grain of salt, to smile at them and pretend like he was even considering the option.
He was good at that: lying. He’d done it since he was young, and he still did it to this day, if only under different implications. He used to lie to survive, to shift the blame on some unlucky soul who was lucky to die as punishment. Now he lied just to get people off his ass, to get everyone to believe that he was just fine and he didn’t need anything. Most believed him, and let it rest at that, but some knew him or those like him well enough to see past the facade.
Most of those people were long gone. Maybe some were still alive, but even if they were, they weren’t around Des long enough to get him to tell them his story.
So his story remained his own, for however long he’d still wander this sorry land, afraid to die lest he meet his own maker. And he wasn’t talking about some phony god, or a band of angels sitting up on their thrones waiting to judge him. What waited for him was just the void, the darkness that he would inevitably become thanks to none other than Lirim Break themselves.
He craved death, but not what it implied. He’d gladly wait for an eternity before he saw them again.
The cigarette in his jaws was almost dead, the last embers dying away, dissipating into the smoke that filled Desperado's already blackened lungs. He wasn't quite drunk, but definitely borderline tipsy, a result of some poorly timed decisions that led one thing to another like a sorry-ass domino effect. The last domino fell here, at the foot of the railroad that led to the one place Des felt normal enough to briefly fool himself into considering it as a home. He had hoped his home would be nicer, maybe surrounded by the grass and flowers of the Ascendants... but they had quickly killed his hopes faster than anyone else had in his lifetime. So it was the salt and seawater that greeted him after a long three months of wandering alone with nothing but his shadow for company.
He was as sorry as sight as he had been the first time he came around here. That much didn't seem to change, but Des expected as much. He had only started to drink and smoke more after leaving the Ascendants, and even if he was immortal to a fault, his mortal body couldn't keep up with his vices.
Speaking of which. Still silent, staring out into the distance and debating his decisions, Desperado let the dying cigarette fall to the earth, snuffing it out with a paw, before lighting a fresh one in quick succession, before his demons could catch up in the time it took for the smoke to disappear completely from the air and his lungs. This is the last one, he promised himself, but he knew that it was a lie. Perhaps it would be the last at that moment, and if no one came around when it was done he'd finally leave. But it was far from his last cigarette that night. He'd need a miracle to break that habit.
Re: squeezin' until they crack a windpipe [ return ] - PEPPINO - 11-03-2018
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//it's my son
also this is bad im sorry
Pip cared greatly about people, too, which manifested in his pursuit of the rank he now held as sage. He knew, though, that for all his determination, he wouldn't be able to help everyone, that there would be times he could exhaust himself over a bleeding, broken body and he would still lose them in the end. He hadn't experienced it, no, but he'd had his head buried in whatever books he could find since he could read, and several of them addressed the deaths of patients. It was inevitable, wasn't it? Everyone died one day. Maybe by that logic he could excuse not caring about people, but that wasn't how Pip's mind worked- instead, he figured that with the limited time they had, it was best to nourish it as much as possible, to give everyone a chance at fulfillment. Everyone deserved that much, didn't they?
Not everyone would agree with him, though. Not everyone cared about other people outside their spheres, as Pip had so recently learned, as he felt in the burns still healing on his shoulders and back. They weren't evil for it, despite Pip knowing how many people must have been taken to this place and left in pain. It wasn't so black and white, because people could change; as far as he could see, they didn't remain static, as hard as it could be to notice it sometimes. He did wish that they could try to be more understanding, at least, more open to each other, instead of creating higher and higher walls. It wasn't fair to anyone.
But even that was subjective, wasn't it?
Pip was just incredibly aware of how different he was from most here. It'd been made even more evident when the canine from The Pitt came, needing help for his enslaved friend, and all the responses were violent, aggressive, distrustful. He had lied, though. That was more of a universal trait, wasn't it? Not necessarily a marker of a person's integrity- more so indicative of what they cared about, of what they would risk honesty for. It could be malicious, he recognized that, but not always. Could anything be written off so definitively?
He'd thought too much about this, maybe. Pip tried to distract himself with gathering herbs, some for the trio that made up the black mambas. He must have had more than enough plantain leaves by the time he passed by the gate, where he paused, mismatched gaze fixating on the unfamiliar figure, smoking a cigarette. The canine approached the larger silhouette stiffly, doing his best not to tug at his wounds as he walked, though he imagined this stranger had known a greater pain than Pip, judging by the thick scarring. "How can I help you?" The boy glanced at the cigarette again. "If that's something you want to quit, I learned a few methods of relieving the cravings." He wasn't going to insinuate he was stupid by saying the habit was unhealthy- most people who smoked were fully aware of it.
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also this is bad im sorry
Pip cared greatly about people, too, which manifested in his pursuit of the rank he now held as sage. He knew, though, that for all his determination, he wouldn't be able to help everyone, that there would be times he could exhaust himself over a bleeding, broken body and he would still lose them in the end. He hadn't experienced it, no, but he'd had his head buried in whatever books he could find since he could read, and several of them addressed the deaths of patients. It was inevitable, wasn't it? Everyone died one day. Maybe by that logic he could excuse not caring about people, but that wasn't how Pip's mind worked- instead, he figured that with the limited time they had, it was best to nourish it as much as possible, to give everyone a chance at fulfillment. Everyone deserved that much, didn't they?
Not everyone would agree with him, though. Not everyone cared about other people outside their spheres, as Pip had so recently learned, as he felt in the burns still healing on his shoulders and back. They weren't evil for it, despite Pip knowing how many people must have been taken to this place and left in pain. It wasn't so black and white, because people could change; as far as he could see, they didn't remain static, as hard as it could be to notice it sometimes. He did wish that they could try to be more understanding, at least, more open to each other, instead of creating higher and higher walls. It wasn't fair to anyone.
But even that was subjective, wasn't it?
Pip was just incredibly aware of how different he was from most here. It'd been made even more evident when the canine from The Pitt came, needing help for his enslaved friend, and all the responses were violent, aggressive, distrustful. He had lied, though. That was more of a universal trait, wasn't it? Not necessarily a marker of a person's integrity- more so indicative of what they cared about, of what they would risk honesty for. It could be malicious, he recognized that, but not always. Could anything be written off so definitively?
He'd thought too much about this, maybe. Pip tried to distract himself with gathering herbs, some for the trio that made up the black mambas. He must have had more than enough plantain leaves by the time he passed by the gate, where he paused, mismatched gaze fixating on the unfamiliar figure, smoking a cigarette. The canine approached the larger silhouette stiffly, doing his best not to tug at his wounds as he walked, though he imagined this stranger had known a greater pain than Pip, judging by the thick scarring. "How can I help you?" The boy glanced at the cigarette again. "If that's something you want to quit, I learned a few methods of relieving the cravings." He wasn't going to insinuate he was stupid by saying the habit was unhealthy- most people who smoked were fully aware of it.
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Re: squeezin' until they crack a windpipe [ return ] - JUNJI - 11-03-2018
[align=center][div style="width: 600px; padding: 10px; height: auto; overflow: auto;"][div style="width: 550px; padding: 0px; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]In Junji's experience, caring only led to trouble. He cared to pad along the beach neighboring the railroad, eyes settled upon the gate each morning and evening and free hours between, searching for someone new. He had once been caring to a fault. Extended his help out to strangers he knew nothing about, and at times, he caught himself in the habit. It was hard to break. As soothsayer, his job was to care, but past traumas told him resist. Only bad things came from helping. Only pain and weariness. Only ungratefulness and harsh words.
No one in this world cared about good intentions, not really. Mortals cared only for themselves, and once they got what they needed, they left without a 'thank you' or even 'goodbye.' There were some that were kind enough to extend those little words to him, but the angel found such things becoming less and less frequent. Junji didn't care anymore, not really, not as much as he should. A certain coldness crept into him and shone in his eyes when looking over a patient, brow furrowed, dulling ocean eyes narrowed and lips tugging into a frown.
At times, Junji wished he could go back to the way he used to be. Living beneath a blanket of innocence, naivety, unrelenting kindness. He missed himself. He missed when he could feel for those in need, but as time went on, he grew sicker and sicker; both with organs black from corruption, and a mindset tired of how the world worked. Yet he needed only to put up a front. He was round and plump with children now, he couldn't fall into this pit of darkness. He couldn't give in. Not yet. For the sake of the lives within him, the angel losing his grace would push on. And pushing on meant meeting this hound at the gate.
His eyes settled first on Desperado. The smell of cigarettes and liquor practically wafted off of him, and though it had been quite some time since the other had been in the Typhoon, his scent was quite distinct. Junji was almost surprised by the fact he recognized it. Months had passed since he had seen Des on the island, and frankly, the angel thought him to have died. Seemed that wasn't the case. His pale gaze turned next to Peppino; one of his new sages, standing before the hound. He only caught the tail end of what the young pup had said, something about cravings and relief. The faintest of smiles played at the pretty feline's lips as he came nearer, moving to curl a wing around his apprentice—a habit from his time with Silus, something he couldn't quite resist.
"Desperado," Cooed the angel, taking another moment to look him over. "It's been a while. Are you here to stay?" He slowly seated himself in the sand. Jun couldn't help but wrinkle his nose ever so slightly at the smoke puffing out from the lit cigarette, resisting the urge to ask the man to put it out. He knew it was a strong vice; something not exactly easy to stop doing, and he didn't want to be rude or anything of the like. He could deal with it for now. A small price to pay to greet someone who had once made a home here. "How have you been faring?"