10-25-2018, 10:34 PM
If he was honest with himself, he hadn't the foggiest goddamn idea what he was doing. But when was he ever honest? Impulse had once again seized Beck by the bruised neck and dragged him from Goldie's hut like a pitiful ragdoll. Crossing out of an old enemy's territory during low tide, he simply allowed his bandaged paws to carry him to nowhere in particular. He hated how he was left to stumble blindly without any sense of feeling to guide him and nearsighted eyes doing nothing to assist, but repressed memories began to worm their way to the back of his mind. Muted footsteps followed the overgrown path to an abandoned home. He couldn't remember any group of critters he resided in beside the Typhoon -- as a matter of fact, he couldn't remember anything besides his identity at this point. The poltergeist was a husk, and always had been, albeit he was practiced in hiding his shallow memory with bits of personality and occasional remembrance. Yet it all felt familiar. Too familiar. Familiar as in the eerie sensation of deja vu that sent a fuzzy static down his spine and bristled the hackles on the back of his neck. Not that Beck's adamant wandering was shaken by a nonsensical feeling. Sure, he remembered a peculiar fondness for the mud squishing beneath his feet and the shade provided by a dense umbrella of gnarled trees, but he was certain he had never been in this exact swamp before.
Kicking aside wilted debris with a childishly sadistic grin typical of one destroying his surroundings for a little fun, the limping boy steadily trotted through the sludge, pausing here and there to admire an arbitrary pebble or pocket a lost trifle within his apparition. Once a thief, always a thief -- no, there wasn't any harm in snatching up something unclaimed. Finders, keepers as the playground bullies used to taunt. Myopic eyes failed to register the sharp decline of the firmer earth until he was practically wading in the mire, the gauze tight around his arms filthy with grime and mud. A sneer of annoyance contorted his disfigured maw while a pallid tongue poked out from pearly razor blades to lick away the faint dribble of chemicals beginning to leak from his missing cheek. He moved to slosh forward another step, only to be met with nothing in reach to stand on. Instead, the scrawny traitor faceplanted in the mud, almost comically despite the fact he was beginning to sink. Great. Even while cemented chin-deep in the muck, Beck still blew a puff of stale air up at the disheveled cowlicks falling into his vision out of frustration, not panic. Perhaps he would free himself later, but for now, the runaway leader was content to mope and literally wallow in the mud of his failed clan, yanking up a single arm from the oozing slop with a slick pop to idly tap out an impulsive rhythm in mud.
[align=center]»――➤Kicking aside wilted debris with a childishly sadistic grin typical of one destroying his surroundings for a little fun, the limping boy steadily trotted through the sludge, pausing here and there to admire an arbitrary pebble or pocket a lost trifle within his apparition. Once a thief, always a thief -- no, there wasn't any harm in snatching up something unclaimed. Finders, keepers as the playground bullies used to taunt. Myopic eyes failed to register the sharp decline of the firmer earth until he was practically wading in the mire, the gauze tight around his arms filthy with grime and mud. A sneer of annoyance contorted his disfigured maw while a pallid tongue poked out from pearly razor blades to lick away the faint dribble of chemicals beginning to leak from his missing cheek. He moved to slosh forward another step, only to be met with nothing in reach to stand on. Instead, the scrawny traitor faceplanted in the mud, almost comically despite the fact he was beginning to sink. Great. Even while cemented chin-deep in the muck, Beck still blew a puff of stale air up at the disheveled cowlicks falling into his vision out of frustration, not panic. Perhaps he would free himself later, but for now, the runaway leader was content to mope and literally wallow in the mud of his failed clan, yanking up a single arm from the oozing slop with a slick pop to idly tap out an impulsive rhythm in mud.