10-23-2018, 07:58 PM
Sometimes, life insinuated that everybody had something to live for. Whether the protagonist was kicked by that constant desire for uniform integrity, or Joe was a hellish demon sent from the underworld to destroy all, all and sundry in life had a calling, a themed inevitability. And, here you had Wendell, throughout his stay here in Sunhaven, surrounded by these amazing personalities and beings of unimaginable power, meagrely pining after a life of simple pleasures. The mustelid wore no mutations, bore no supernatural powers, and possessed no scourge. And, yet, he believed himself damned to a fate much worse than crucifixion; a long, uneventful existence. Wendell never robbed a bank, or wrote a hit song. He was Wendell, a peace-loving simpleton whom couldn’t go a week without pointing out the flaws he tried ever so much to avoid. The mustelid belonged not in Sunhaven, not Snowbound, but an isolated cabin in a forgotten wood.
He was not an actor, like the rest; Wendell Harrowsmith was an audience member.
It had been yet another monotonous epoch of routine hours, mostly spent on the hide from ghosts and snide Ascendants who may crave his hide for an easy target. As was his usual daily formula. No friends to count on, no rivals to compete against. Just existing, wasting away at his lifespan. It was dangerous to go out and about nowadays, further limiting opportunity - however, today was different. Maybe- maybe the wolverine would venture to a spot he was unfamiliar with (which wouldn’t be too hard, for much his home territory had went unexplored by the male). It mattered not if he got captured or not, for it would at least be something in his life, for once. How was he supposed to write a book lol he’d planned if there was no inspiration to take adventure away from?
Hours later was where he found himself now, confused, afraid, concerned. A being was in obvious pain, a conflagrant, shocking amount of pain. Whatever, whoever, it was, moaning at a level of decibels comparable to that of an avalanche, Wendell exhibited a dread-haunted condolement, meaning he desired to aid the individual expressing their incredulous pain, yet feared the horrid bellowing that said individual had broached.
Soon, the yowls died down, which kickstarted a guilt within the indecisive sunbearer. He was obviously too late, all on fault of chickenheartedness. Desperate for answers to a previously unasked question - what caused this personage to shriek? - he entered the scene, and received an answer he had not foreseen; it was not a what making those wretched noises, but a who, a who he had known, no less. Marina. Her chained figure was immediately recognizable, compelling Wendell to dart towards the hellhound, taking no notice of her devoted accomplice. His aghast maw moved, yet no words formed or exited through his breaths. Why was his Helion shackled to the flooring, what sticky situation had the gaffer gotten into for her to exist in such a state? It was known that she had been sickened, infected by some exotic influenza, though none of it crossed his mind - Wendell cared more for how to save Marina, rather than ponder on the circumstances. Finally, he spoke. "Are...?" he unsteadily asked the figure, her previous cries of certain wording too distant to be fathomed, but close enough to be heard, ”are you there? Mrs. Marina?”. It seemed her last bit of consciousnesses had just left. Slowly approaching her form, he’d calmly institute, though in a stronger voice, ”Marina, do you stir?”.
He was not an actor, like the rest; Wendell Harrowsmith was an audience member.
It had been yet another monotonous epoch of routine hours, mostly spent on the hide from ghosts and snide Ascendants who may crave his hide for an easy target. As was his usual daily formula. No friends to count on, no rivals to compete against. Just existing, wasting away at his lifespan. It was dangerous to go out and about nowadays, further limiting opportunity - however, today was different. Maybe- maybe the wolverine would venture to a spot he was unfamiliar with (which wouldn’t be too hard, for much his home territory had went unexplored by the male). It mattered not if he got captured or not, for it would at least be something in his life, for once. How was he supposed to write a book lol he’d planned if there was no inspiration to take adventure away from?
Hours later was where he found himself now, confused, afraid, concerned. A being was in obvious pain, a conflagrant, shocking amount of pain. Whatever, whoever, it was, moaning at a level of decibels comparable to that of an avalanche, Wendell exhibited a dread-haunted condolement, meaning he desired to aid the individual expressing their incredulous pain, yet feared the horrid bellowing that said individual had broached.
Soon, the yowls died down, which kickstarted a guilt within the indecisive sunbearer. He was obviously too late, all on fault of chickenheartedness. Desperate for answers to a previously unasked question - what caused this personage to shriek? - he entered the scene, and received an answer he had not foreseen; it was not a what making those wretched noises, but a who, a who he had known, no less. Marina. Her chained figure was immediately recognizable, compelling Wendell to dart towards the hellhound, taking no notice of her devoted accomplice. His aghast maw moved, yet no words formed or exited through his breaths. Why was his Helion shackled to the flooring, what sticky situation had the gaffer gotten into for her to exist in such a state? It was known that she had been sickened, infected by some exotic influenza, though none of it crossed his mind - Wendell cared more for how to save Marina, rather than ponder on the circumstances. Finally, he spoke. "Are...?" he unsteadily asked the figure, her previous cries of certain wording too distant to be fathomed, but close enough to be heard, ”are you there? Mrs. Marina?”. It seemed her last bit of consciousnesses had just left. Slowly approaching her form, he’d calmly institute, though in a stronger voice, ”Marina, do you stir?”.