10-07-2018, 06:26 PM
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With his recent depression-fuelled inactivity and anxious actions, you’d think Wendell to bid not to clock in to his old home’s shindig. However, it was quite the opposite.
Wendell missed Snowbound, now more than ever. The wolverine yearned for the crumpling of its signature frigid powder beneath his paws, wishing for snowflakes to tickle his warm snout once again. The niveous valley was not his current dwelling, but it was where he believed he had belonged the most. The comfort of people of whom actually possessed the ability to relate to you, it was missing in Sunhaven, be it on fault of others not willing to acquaint themselves with him, or his lack of trying to do so himself. Inexplicable, yet significant, sparks of memory kindled in his fire-pit mind, a hypothetical projector playing a slideshow of recollections on some screen. The wolverine could recall his first night here, how the sheer sight of snow had bewildered him beyond description. He managed to memorize the flavours of juice that Cry had brewed up.
Wendell recalled the very evening when Stryker marched into the grand hall, dragging along Atbash in a fashion similar to a ragdoll. That same night, he had been electrocuted by some wizarding Pittian, and was almost mauled to death by some jet-black reptilian before being spared.
Said night was the last he’d ever spend in Snowbound.
With great hope, perhaps a few friendly faces yet remained; he had recognized his old leader’s figure from a distance (that currently was conversing with a smaller mammal). Simply spotting the outline of her figure overwhelmed Wendell with a bittersweet brew of nostalgia and guilt. Such brew had been concocting in the hearthkeeper’s esophagus for the past month, and it bothered him oh so greatly. The only cure for it would be to converse with those he’d left behind, settle a score which he saw as important.
Shooting his Helion a quick glance in recognition before doing so, Wendell tread anxiously towards Atbash, and, unbeknownst to him, a rabbit-bodied Nui. What was Atbash’s opinion on him, he wondered? Did she see him as a coward? Did she simply not care? Would she desire to lay her eyes upon him once more, even after his escape? Only time could tell - in about two minutes, hopefully. "Doing nicely, Ms. Atbash?" he’d inquire, his sole, teeny sliver of confidence making it’s way through his throat.
With his recent depression-fuelled inactivity and anxious actions, you’d think Wendell to bid not to clock in to his old home’s shindig. However, it was quite the opposite.
Wendell missed Snowbound, now more than ever. The wolverine yearned for the crumpling of its signature frigid powder beneath his paws, wishing for snowflakes to tickle his warm snout once again. The niveous valley was not his current dwelling, but it was where he believed he had belonged the most. The comfort of people of whom actually possessed the ability to relate to you, it was missing in Sunhaven, be it on fault of others not willing to acquaint themselves with him, or his lack of trying to do so himself. Inexplicable, yet significant, sparks of memory kindled in his fire-pit mind, a hypothetical projector playing a slideshow of recollections on some screen. The wolverine could recall his first night here, how the sheer sight of snow had bewildered him beyond description. He managed to memorize the flavours of juice that Cry had brewed up.
Wendell recalled the very evening when Stryker marched into the grand hall, dragging along Atbash in a fashion similar to a ragdoll. That same night, he had been electrocuted by some wizarding Pittian, and was almost mauled to death by some jet-black reptilian before being spared.
Said night was the last he’d ever spend in Snowbound.
With great hope, perhaps a few friendly faces yet remained; he had recognized his old leader’s figure from a distance (that currently was conversing with a smaller mammal). Simply spotting the outline of her figure overwhelmed Wendell with a bittersweet brew of nostalgia and guilt. Such brew had been concocting in the hearthkeeper’s esophagus for the past month, and it bothered him oh so greatly. The only cure for it would be to converse with those he’d left behind, settle a score which he saw as important.
Shooting his Helion a quick glance in recognition before doing so, Wendell tread anxiously towards Atbash, and, unbeknownst to him, a rabbit-bodied Nui. What was Atbash’s opinion on him, he wondered? Did she see him as a coward? Did she simply not care? Would she desire to lay her eyes upon him once more, even after his escape? Only time could tell - in about two minutes, hopefully. "Doing nicely, Ms. Atbash?" he’d inquire, his sole, teeny sliver of confidence making it’s way through his throat.