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+----- Thread: his mind is in a different place / atticus (/showthread.php?tid=7687)
his mind is in a different place / atticus - no more - 11-06-2018
[align=center][div style="max-width: 360px; line-height:120%; font-family: calibri; font-size: 8.5pt; text-align: justify; margin-bottom:5px"][ ❖ ] ;; – Upon borrowed time is life suspended, seconds stolen from the grasp of others, tick of seconds never meant for him passing with each breath escaping lips left cracked and bloodied all too many times.
Almost may it be amusing if such had proven anything more then a necessity, drawn from fertile soil given the taste of hatred, watered by blood – that which found home in the veins beneath his own freckle touched skin or that of others. Accustomed had he grown to such, given the weary outlook of one forced to cast uneasy a glance over shoulder, wondering if with the breaking of dawn might this day bring with it his demise. Better would it have been for such, allowed rest full and peaceful, the worry caught in weary bones left aside for the quiet touch of death. There was no chance for such a thing, however, the erratic beat of heart in the hollow of chest speaking of life, stolen as it may be.
Over the surface of the apple fingers danced, touched upon blemished about the swirl of red and yellow painted across the skin. Slightly soft was the flesh beneath, beyond the point of being ripe though not at the point it proved inedible and he found it near impossible to give up food no matter its source or state. Plucked straight from the tree had such been, overladen with fruit simply left to rot, the overly sweet smell of it enough a draw for the youth. And so he had readily gone about picking a few, filling the already fit to burst satchel, left discarded now.
Free hand tapped against the surface of stone. Weight was leaned back into the low wall of mismatched stone, their colour various shades of brown and grey, made as simple a barrier between the fields and the road encircling the structure of the castle. Strange was it to be here, just beyond the high walls where once he had tread, laughter ringing as he had run from the grasping hands of others, shouting and cursing as they sought the things he had taken. Almost could he draw forth the memory of one man, the slope of forehead beneath dark hair, heavy the hard gaze above the sharp frown and yet never had he permitted his death.
It might simply be such a simple kindness, the delay of punishment befit his crimes, which had driven the thief known only as Sil to question the captain. The matter had seemed trivial at first, the want for lessons enough to leave his stomach twisting into painful knots, but the acceptance had offered little relief, rather it brought only further pain. Easy may it have been to simply slip away, allow the captain to wonder over the strange inquiry for clear was the callouses upon his hands, built over time and use of daggers that sat upon his hips. And yet something compelled him to linger, allowing his weight to draw him down until he was sitting in the low grass clustered about the stone fence.
“What am I even doing,” murmured words, hand lifting only to touch upon the bridge of nose, broken a great many times and set badly until crooked was it, pinching it. Simple is the nature of question though such may never be a descriptor for an answer, many as they may be, lost upon thoughts that clamour for attention, none fitting the empty space left in the wake of such words.
[member=2678]ATTICUS[/member]
Re: his mind is in a different place / atticus - ATTICUS - 11-06-2018
▹▹▹▹Was it a wonder or a curiousity? Atticus would say that it was neither. It was his job to dole out punishments to crime-doers and those that would seek harm. Many would further say that Atticus was a contradiction. Often, despite repeat offenders, his punishments given were light; a slap on the hand, maybe being forced to work on a farm for a few months. Though they were not bold enough to say it to his face, for Atticus had little issue in giving a glare so fierce it could hush even the strongest of men, he had heard the whisperings of the rest of his men that he was the cause for all the criminals. After all, if you did something bad and found the punishment to be light, or even bearable, what was to stop you from doing it again? Some might say he should take the hands of thieves, as was common. Others thought death was a fitting punishment for most crimes, yet Atticus saw it differently. He was a contradiction. He had been nobody, not really, before he had gotten involved in the castle guard- and that itself was a feat. You weren't just supposed to rise in rank from a nobody to Noble status. At least, that was typically what most guards and knights were; nobles, nobles who sought power and glory in being thought of as a protector of the law and of the kingdom.
But he had. A boy who had caught the eye of a guard for his potential. A boy who had been taken under the wing of some of his greatest mentors and taught to be more than what he was, or what he would ever be in his original state. Perhaps, some might argue, this was the reason Atticus was so 'soft'. He was not soft, that much was very clear, for he did sentence people to death. He did take the hands of miserable people but there was a difference, he knew. There was a difference between desperation and evil. There was a difference between a petty theft and a larger scheme. The point of the game was, however, to decide which was which and react accordingly. So perhaps they were right in some ways. Perhaps he was soft, yet equally not so- he was a balance that many failed to have in recent time. He was a contradiction, but he didn't mind being one.
He was stepping foot outside of the castle walls, a sword at his side and his gaze forward as he began his idle steps around the grounds. Yes, he had seen the thief, but he had run. And run with hardly more goods or money to speak of than if he had not even done so in the first place. He wasn't necessarily a threat, someone Atticus was willing to let by unless they did it again, no more than a flash of a figure fleeing from the scene of the crime, rough hands carved by time and repeat offenses. His steps had just rounded the corner when a quiet, muttered voice hit his ears. What am I even doing? It was an odd sentiment in any situation, one that made Atticus idly turn and step towards it, turning himself past the low outcrop of a wall that the boy had knelt himself beneath.
It was there that his gaze landed upon him, taking only a moment or two to flicker over his form; the hands, the hair, and the apple in his hands, before it clicked. "I'd be curious to know the answer to that as well," he spoke, announcing his presence in a low, soft rumble of a voice, only the faintest edge of required etiquette landing upon his words. "Many would say you're not a very good thief." The words continued, yet Atticus made no move to grab the boy, or show any inclination that he had plans to do so, only casually stepping besides him as his arms folded and his gaze turned over the landscape. "Come now, what are you thinking, really?" Of course, Atticus had a couple of guesses himself, but he was going to be amused all the same by the answer the boy gave.
//kinda rushed sorry running out the door <33
But he had. A boy who had caught the eye of a guard for his potential. A boy who had been taken under the wing of some of his greatest mentors and taught to be more than what he was, or what he would ever be in his original state. Perhaps, some might argue, this was the reason Atticus was so 'soft'. He was not soft, that much was very clear, for he did sentence people to death. He did take the hands of miserable people but there was a difference, he knew. There was a difference between desperation and evil. There was a difference between a petty theft and a larger scheme. The point of the game was, however, to decide which was which and react accordingly. So perhaps they were right in some ways. Perhaps he was soft, yet equally not so- he was a balance that many failed to have in recent time. He was a contradiction, but he didn't mind being one.
He was stepping foot outside of the castle walls, a sword at his side and his gaze forward as he began his idle steps around the grounds. Yes, he had seen the thief, but he had run. And run with hardly more goods or money to speak of than if he had not even done so in the first place. He wasn't necessarily a threat, someone Atticus was willing to let by unless they did it again, no more than a flash of a figure fleeing from the scene of the crime, rough hands carved by time and repeat offenses. His steps had just rounded the corner when a quiet, muttered voice hit his ears. What am I even doing? It was an odd sentiment in any situation, one that made Atticus idly turn and step towards it, turning himself past the low outcrop of a wall that the boy had knelt himself beneath.
It was there that his gaze landed upon him, taking only a moment or two to flicker over his form; the hands, the hair, and the apple in his hands, before it clicked. "I'd be curious to know the answer to that as well," he spoke, announcing his presence in a low, soft rumble of a voice, only the faintest edge of required etiquette landing upon his words. "Many would say you're not a very good thief." The words continued, yet Atticus made no move to grab the boy, or show any inclination that he had plans to do so, only casually stepping besides him as his arms folded and his gaze turned over the landscape. "Come now, what are you thinking, really?" Of course, Atticus had a couple of guesses himself, but he was going to be amused all the same by the answer the boy gave.
//kinda rushed sorry running out the door <33