05-20-2018, 07:52 PM
[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; line-height:115%; text-align: justify;"]dying is easy, young man, living is harder — Run. He couldn't stop. He had to keep moving forward, he had to escape, he had to run. Concrete gave way to soil, overgrown nails finding easy purchase in the loose earth. His legs ached, a soreness so familiar to him it was carved into his bones as splints and fractures. His lungs and throat were raw. Heavy breaths drew in dusty basement air, thick city smog, crisp spring breezes scratching down his windpipe like glass shrapnel. So far from the city, a day and night away from the nearest human life, but still Nathanael ran. Lack of sleep and cognition made the pedigree's gait unsure, slender legs clumsily reaching forward as heavily calloused paws struggled navigate across a tangle of roots and brambles. Where the fuck was he? Cerulean eyes struggled to focus on his blurred surroundings as they passed him briskly. His lack of attention caused a mud-stained paw to catch on an upturned root, aching muscles and numbed reflexes failing to catch the smooth collie as he toppled down into the soil damp with brackish water.
"Fuck," a hoarse whisper as even his voice suffered from his overexertion, chest heaving as his body was finally forced to catch up with the activity forced upon it. Wounds angry with early infection, reopened from the continuous strain, bled lazily to carry away whatever dirt had accumulated atop them. It stung, but it was not blinding. It was just another pain to add to the list to Nathanael's growing collection. Unable to push himself completely up, the collie instead straightened his posture but remained lying, tongue lolled from his mouth as he drew in breaths of damp marsh winds. Covered in shallow scratches and deep bite wounds, lips marred with milky lines with missing sections of ears, it was clear from appearance alone that Nathanael was very accustomed to fighting. His appearance was also a clear giveaway he happened to fight often, and was usually not the victor. Wagers, drugs, screaming, he suffered for money and the scars he bore for their amusement would never fade. But he was alive, more than the losers could say. Nathanael shifted to rest his head down on his paws, chest no longer heaving for air. The small movement hurt. He was alive for now, but not much longer if he did not get his wounds looked at. If he did not rest. Nathanael did not trust others, did not like them, but he would die without aid.
Nathanael was brash. Nathanael was foolish, aggressive, brazen, rash, temperamental. But Nathanael was not suicidal, and this would not be the end of him. He had killed, slaughtered other innocents weaker than him in the name of survival, he would not let his sacrifices be in vain. Their sacrifices. Not today.
But seeking help was easier said than done. Alone in the wilds with his pride to silence him to any he encountered. At worst, Nathanael would force himself to move beneath the shade of a tree and stay put for the night. Regain his strength, and depart in search of someone that could aid him in the morning (assuming he was still alive in the morning, a possibility Nathanael refused to acknowledge). But with luck, Nathanael might be spotted. The area was scented heavily with the presence of other animals, a risk Nathanael had no real way of escaping due to his lack of strength: he had no choice but to hope for the best. Oh, what he'd been reduced to. Luck, wishing, fortune, he might as well pray to Gods that had long since left him to die on this cursed Earth. Turned a blind eye to his misery, left him to the needles of humans and the teeth of other dogs. Nathanael had learned to control his own fate to avoid his own demise, and he'd be damned if he was ever going back to wishes. "Hello?" He called into the murky swamp, head lifting from his paws to scan his surroundings. There had to be someone, somewhere, that could help him. God knows he doesn't want the assistance from anyone, but he needs it. "Anyone there?" Another call, his sore throat protesting in sharp stings as he spoke. "I need some fuckin' attention." 'Attention' hurt his pride much less than 'help', as if he had any dignity left to preserve.
/wOaH i went overboard, tl;dr a smooth collie collapsed on tanglewood's border - he's covered in both old and new wounds, and he's suffering from exhaustion :^) i didnt proofread so pardon mistakes lmaO
"Fuck," a hoarse whisper as even his voice suffered from his overexertion, chest heaving as his body was finally forced to catch up with the activity forced upon it. Wounds angry with early infection, reopened from the continuous strain, bled lazily to carry away whatever dirt had accumulated atop them. It stung, but it was not blinding. It was just another pain to add to the list to Nathanael's growing collection. Unable to push himself completely up, the collie instead straightened his posture but remained lying, tongue lolled from his mouth as he drew in breaths of damp marsh winds. Covered in shallow scratches and deep bite wounds, lips marred with milky lines with missing sections of ears, it was clear from appearance alone that Nathanael was very accustomed to fighting. His appearance was also a clear giveaway he happened to fight often, and was usually not the victor. Wagers, drugs, screaming, he suffered for money and the scars he bore for their amusement would never fade. But he was alive, more than the losers could say. Nathanael shifted to rest his head down on his paws, chest no longer heaving for air. The small movement hurt. He was alive for now, but not much longer if he did not get his wounds looked at. If he did not rest. Nathanael did not trust others, did not like them, but he would die without aid.
Nathanael was brash. Nathanael was foolish, aggressive, brazen, rash, temperamental. But Nathanael was not suicidal, and this would not be the end of him. He had killed, slaughtered other innocents weaker than him in the name of survival, he would not let his sacrifices be in vain. Their sacrifices. Not today.
But seeking help was easier said than done. Alone in the wilds with his pride to silence him to any he encountered. At worst, Nathanael would force himself to move beneath the shade of a tree and stay put for the night. Regain his strength, and depart in search of someone that could aid him in the morning (assuming he was still alive in the morning, a possibility Nathanael refused to acknowledge). But with luck, Nathanael might be spotted. The area was scented heavily with the presence of other animals, a risk Nathanael had no real way of escaping due to his lack of strength: he had no choice but to hope for the best. Oh, what he'd been reduced to. Luck, wishing, fortune, he might as well pray to Gods that had long since left him to die on this cursed Earth. Turned a blind eye to his misery, left him to the needles of humans and the teeth of other dogs. Nathanael had learned to control his own fate to avoid his own demise, and he'd be damned if he was ever going back to wishes. "Hello?" He called into the murky swamp, head lifting from his paws to scan his surroundings. There had to be someone, somewhere, that could help him. God knows he doesn't want the assistance from anyone, but he needs it. "Anyone there?" Another call, his sore throat protesting in sharp stings as he spoke. "I need some fuckin' attention." 'Attention' hurt his pride much less than 'help', as if he had any dignity left to preserve.
/wOaH i went overboard, tl;dr a smooth collie collapsed on tanglewood's border - he's covered in both old and new wounds, and he's suffering from exhaustion :^) i didnt proofread so pardon mistakes lmaO
first i felt faded, then it got loud: next i was wasted, then i blacked out
said ❝damn, gotta get sober❞ but it always starts right over