08-19-2018, 03:45 AM
About a week ago, Bakugou attended his second meeting. There was a totally different vibe humming throughout the air, decorated with the overhanging grey clouds and followed sounds of drizzled rain. In the same brooding atmosphere, the ragdoll was promoted to striker. It caught him by surprise – his eyes were wide, almost protruding, and he couldn’t forget the way it felt when his heart began to race. He doesn’t even remember why. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that Kirishima sat next to him, gave him a friendly bump when his name was called, boomed throughout the ploughs of trodden land for all to hear. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he felt appreciated. He’s only now just realized how small he’s felt over the month. Bakugou’s stopped looking at his own reflection with the same egotistical hue, as if he had learnt to be humble. He was still confused, unaccustomed to the world and still unable to radiate the same bedazzling confidence he showed in the other life. It left him baffled at that point in time. Without knowing it, he had been administered a shot of self-esteem. Confidence was awoken, reborn from within him. Although he’d never admit it, he was grateful for the promotion, the acknowledgement passed upon him like a spectral flame. He needed the boost, the support, because without realizing there was a swirling abyss which now laid dormant, subsided by the warm feelings which heated his system.
The feeling of his pulse, shattering echoes along his lungs, reminds him of metalwork. The crisp sound of a hammer beating against stone, the sparks which shower on impact. Suddenly Bakugou wants to try it again, create something meaningful that can last forever. And yet he draws himself back to reality that drawls in front of him. He’s decided to move into one of the lifeguard towers. Well, not completely move in. He, more or less, wishes to set up a base for he enjoys convenience, pulling a few items behind him in a cotton bag to a structure he knows is not inhabited. Going up the stairs is a bit of a pain. His belongings clutter and clang from within their confinement, often getting caught between the spaces and resulting in the ragdoll having to forcefully jerk the bag upwards. Always he is surprised by the sudden force which projects back at him after managing to get his items unstuck. It almost threw him over the first time, but he has managed to move a few things in. They are mainly blankets but he’s also brought himself a set of binoculars, a stone knife and a new, unused lantern. From the looks of it, whoever last inhabited this tower surely enjoyed their luxury. There is already a chair cushioned with a contrastingly red pillow and a painting hung up on a wall, similarly matching with the same bold colours clashing against the backdrop.
Bakugou shifts his attention to the window which, from the outside, is heavily tinted. To achieve a better view, he leaps onto the chair. The sea. There’s the usual aloofness that only the ocean seems to be capable of summoning, the same kind of nonchalance he often felt when he was in the presence of Captain Pincher. It was as if there were eyes staring back at him, cold and resonating with the indifference of the universe. He is aware that there is a kind of connection between the sea and the moon, almost as though the world would split in two should they be without each other. Then there are the sleepless folds of the passing tides, arms outstretched in a desperate attempt to crawl upon the dusty sands only to be dragged back into the depths. The horizon is stretched like the white glint of a blade, sharpened to kill but left only to look pretty. At dusk, the very same horizon slices the might of the sun, letting the ball of flames to dissipate to elsewhere. Vanished, gone. He tears his eyes away in an attempt not to get sucked in, to maintain at least a fragment of his sanity.
After finishing with the organization of his ‘room’, using blankets as a makeshift bed and lighting the tip of his lantern’s candle, he leaves the lifeguard tower to clear his head. The moment he steps foot outside, chills trace down his spine. The warmth, originally contained within the structure, didn’t choose to stay. Instead it whizzed out the second he opened the door, betraying him. Bakugou paws sink within the pearly grains, planting him there until his legs rise and follow his usual walking pattern. His lungs shudder, bewildered by the complexities of the universe. Again, he draws his mind to the landscape and holds himself there. Lips pressed together, he begins counting the number of seashells he has walked past and examining the variations they came in, the prickly shapes the ocean had so carefully molded with the same overwhelming dissonance. Without any reason, he looks up and realizes the overhung shape of palm leaves, covering the roof of what appears to be a downtrodden wooden structure of a hut. When he comes closer, he then recognizes the irregular laying of mismatched stone bricks which support the side in a lame, halfhearted attempt to rework the building. At the same time, the same stones are used to form a fence which leads his eyes towards what he realizes to be an open-air forgery.
There is a ring containing unlit coals, contractions of fans and large empty containers lying about. The back of the hut is covered only by animal skins, flapping against the breeze. Without hesitating, he enters the hut to see a fireplace and some chairs strewn about. Homely. He’s realized now that he has stumbled across a blacksmiths hut that no one seems to have claimed. Evidence is in the gloominess the area showed, the blackness of coals and the dust which resided along the multitude of surfaces. It is close to his lifeguard tower and he briefly considers moving in all together, noting that he’s never really held any attachments for his old house only that it had good space for him to inhabit. The lifeguard tower, after all, was too small for him to live in.
For the next hour or so, Typhooners can watch the striker as he takes trips back and forth his house and the blacksmith’s hut. The first item he takes is a broom, sweeping the dust outside and even taking moments to pause and sneeze. His eyes water from the particles, old by their very nature, as he works rigorously to clean the place then eventually move all his belongings into the hut. He soon recognizes the bones which lay inside some of the wooden barrels. He tips them over then decorates the front, inelegantly using the bones to shape his name in both English and Japanese letters: Katsuki Bakugou. He can’t help but smile at the energy which courses through him when he lights the fireplace with an effortless breath, watching the embers illuminate the restless night. He goes out to the back, poking the orange coals with a strong branch. There are a few unfinished works left behind what must have been a nostalgic memory of The Typhoon and he takes some string, securing the stone blade to its handle. He does this to other weapons too, refining or fixing them that he realizes he has no use for so many stone tools. They had such peculiar and perplexing shapes too. One was made from a large tooth, likely from a dragon, to function as a knife. None of such items were smoothly round for his paws are unable to fashion such products.
Bakugou begins relocating the weapons outside onto a makeshift stall he made with a laid-out animal rug he found from inside, placing them down neatly in a categorical order. His muscles are sore, unaccustomed to the heavy-lifting and unforgiving nature of forgery. His newfound obsession for blacksmithing items was one of the leading causes to his slow healing wounds as they were frequently reopened. Despite this, he’s gotten used to the pain in favour of the end result. He takes great comfort in this pastime and he doesn’t plan on giving it up. It is perhaps one of the few good things which came out of his last fight, the fight he had so miserably lost. ”Free weapons if ya shitheads want any,” he calls out to no one in particular, then proceeds to make a sign. He doesn’t to hoard around the excess he has collected. He’s already got at least one of everything: an ivory and stone knife, a spear, an axe, a mace, a club…heck, he even had some arrows he would be more than happy to throw out.
---
[ tldr; ] this whole thing is a oneshot of a segment of bakugou’s life after being promoted:
- He moves some of his belongings into a lifeguard tower, just setting it up as a casual base.
- In the afternoon, he goes to have a walk on the beach and finds an abandoned hut.
- The front of the hut looks like a really ugly building but it’s actually an open air blacksmiths hut, which you can see by the arrangement of things to the back of the hut.
- He chooses to move residency to this hut and uses bones to spell out his name on the hut’s front, claiming it as his as it seems no one else has. It’s a long process so your character could have probably seen him walking back and forth the two structures.
- He finds unfinished or unrefined weapons, fixes them and realizes he doesn’t really need them so tags one of the animal skins, lays it out and puts his extra weapons upon it. The weapons are mainly stone and ivory knives, arrows, axes, machetes, spears and clubs.
- He announces the weapons are free for taking, but also makes a sign in case anyone misses his call.
The feeling of his pulse, shattering echoes along his lungs, reminds him of metalwork. The crisp sound of a hammer beating against stone, the sparks which shower on impact. Suddenly Bakugou wants to try it again, create something meaningful that can last forever. And yet he draws himself back to reality that drawls in front of him. He’s decided to move into one of the lifeguard towers. Well, not completely move in. He, more or less, wishes to set up a base for he enjoys convenience, pulling a few items behind him in a cotton bag to a structure he knows is not inhabited. Going up the stairs is a bit of a pain. His belongings clutter and clang from within their confinement, often getting caught between the spaces and resulting in the ragdoll having to forcefully jerk the bag upwards. Always he is surprised by the sudden force which projects back at him after managing to get his items unstuck. It almost threw him over the first time, but he has managed to move a few things in. They are mainly blankets but he’s also brought himself a set of binoculars, a stone knife and a new, unused lantern. From the looks of it, whoever last inhabited this tower surely enjoyed their luxury. There is already a chair cushioned with a contrastingly red pillow and a painting hung up on a wall, similarly matching with the same bold colours clashing against the backdrop.
Bakugou shifts his attention to the window which, from the outside, is heavily tinted. To achieve a better view, he leaps onto the chair. The sea. There’s the usual aloofness that only the ocean seems to be capable of summoning, the same kind of nonchalance he often felt when he was in the presence of Captain Pincher. It was as if there were eyes staring back at him, cold and resonating with the indifference of the universe. He is aware that there is a kind of connection between the sea and the moon, almost as though the world would split in two should they be without each other. Then there are the sleepless folds of the passing tides, arms outstretched in a desperate attempt to crawl upon the dusty sands only to be dragged back into the depths. The horizon is stretched like the white glint of a blade, sharpened to kill but left only to look pretty. At dusk, the very same horizon slices the might of the sun, letting the ball of flames to dissipate to elsewhere. Vanished, gone. He tears his eyes away in an attempt not to get sucked in, to maintain at least a fragment of his sanity.
After finishing with the organization of his ‘room’, using blankets as a makeshift bed and lighting the tip of his lantern’s candle, he leaves the lifeguard tower to clear his head. The moment he steps foot outside, chills trace down his spine. The warmth, originally contained within the structure, didn’t choose to stay. Instead it whizzed out the second he opened the door, betraying him. Bakugou paws sink within the pearly grains, planting him there until his legs rise and follow his usual walking pattern. His lungs shudder, bewildered by the complexities of the universe. Again, he draws his mind to the landscape and holds himself there. Lips pressed together, he begins counting the number of seashells he has walked past and examining the variations they came in, the prickly shapes the ocean had so carefully molded with the same overwhelming dissonance. Without any reason, he looks up and realizes the overhung shape of palm leaves, covering the roof of what appears to be a downtrodden wooden structure of a hut. When he comes closer, he then recognizes the irregular laying of mismatched stone bricks which support the side in a lame, halfhearted attempt to rework the building. At the same time, the same stones are used to form a fence which leads his eyes towards what he realizes to be an open-air forgery.
There is a ring containing unlit coals, contractions of fans and large empty containers lying about. The back of the hut is covered only by animal skins, flapping against the breeze. Without hesitating, he enters the hut to see a fireplace and some chairs strewn about. Homely. He’s realized now that he has stumbled across a blacksmiths hut that no one seems to have claimed. Evidence is in the gloominess the area showed, the blackness of coals and the dust which resided along the multitude of surfaces. It is close to his lifeguard tower and he briefly considers moving in all together, noting that he’s never really held any attachments for his old house only that it had good space for him to inhabit. The lifeguard tower, after all, was too small for him to live in.
For the next hour or so, Typhooners can watch the striker as he takes trips back and forth his house and the blacksmith’s hut. The first item he takes is a broom, sweeping the dust outside and even taking moments to pause and sneeze. His eyes water from the particles, old by their very nature, as he works rigorously to clean the place then eventually move all his belongings into the hut. He soon recognizes the bones which lay inside some of the wooden barrels. He tips them over then decorates the front, inelegantly using the bones to shape his name in both English and Japanese letters: Katsuki Bakugou. He can’t help but smile at the energy which courses through him when he lights the fireplace with an effortless breath, watching the embers illuminate the restless night. He goes out to the back, poking the orange coals with a strong branch. There are a few unfinished works left behind what must have been a nostalgic memory of The Typhoon and he takes some string, securing the stone blade to its handle. He does this to other weapons too, refining or fixing them that he realizes he has no use for so many stone tools. They had such peculiar and perplexing shapes too. One was made from a large tooth, likely from a dragon, to function as a knife. None of such items were smoothly round for his paws are unable to fashion such products.
Bakugou begins relocating the weapons outside onto a makeshift stall he made with a laid-out animal rug he found from inside, placing them down neatly in a categorical order. His muscles are sore, unaccustomed to the heavy-lifting and unforgiving nature of forgery. His newfound obsession for blacksmithing items was one of the leading causes to his slow healing wounds as they were frequently reopened. Despite this, he’s gotten used to the pain in favour of the end result. He takes great comfort in this pastime and he doesn’t plan on giving it up. It is perhaps one of the few good things which came out of his last fight, the fight he had so miserably lost. ”Free weapons if ya shitheads want any,” he calls out to no one in particular, then proceeds to make a sign. He doesn’t to hoard around the excess he has collected. He’s already got at least one of everything: an ivory and stone knife, a spear, an axe, a mace, a club…heck, he even had some arrows he would be more than happy to throw out.
---
[ tldr; ] this whole thing is a oneshot of a segment of bakugou’s life after being promoted:
- He moves some of his belongings into a lifeguard tower, just setting it up as a casual base.
- In the afternoon, he goes to have a walk on the beach and finds an abandoned hut.
- The front of the hut looks like a really ugly building but it’s actually an open air blacksmiths hut, which you can see by the arrangement of things to the back of the hut.
- He chooses to move residency to this hut and uses bones to spell out his name on the hut’s front, claiming it as his as it seems no one else has. It’s a long process so your character could have probably seen him walking back and forth the two structures.
- He finds unfinished or unrefined weapons, fixes them and realizes he doesn’t really need them so tags one of the animal skins, lays it out and puts his extra weapons upon it. The weapons are mainly stone and ivory knives, arrows, axes, machetes, spears and clubs.
- He announces the weapons are free for taking, but also makes a sign in case anyone misses his call.
