11-13-2018, 01:51 AM
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He loved beating his problems to death as much as the next person (perhaps even more so, truthfully) but when his problem was in itself a death, he couldn't desecrate his sister's body or memory by attempting to throttle either out of his head. Hawke held few things sacred, but Bethany was the closest to a saint he would ever revere. His little brother considerably less so, who was another of Hawke's issues, and one he was sorely tempted to knock the shit out of. That, however, would upset Mother. Granted, that had hardly kept him from clubbing dear Carver in the past (so, so satisfying, little brother), but Bethany's loss had unbalanced their sturdy quad - quadrio? quadro? - quartet arrangement into a wobbling trio. They were, after father's death, a still fairly handsome four-legged oaken table that later lost a leg with Bethany, and a three-legged table was more useless than nipples on a breastplate.
A two legged table even less so, but moping around a hovel had only agreed with Hawke for the first five minutes before he needed to escape the despondent sighs and baleful glares.
Was he running away? Certainly. Was he planning on addressing his predicament? No - the answer to the first question should have made that obvious. So suffice it to say, Hawke would not be beating his issues to death with a hefty stick, unfortunately. Rather, he was plodding across what had to be the longest, shittiest excuse for a bridge he had ever walked in all of his almost two years of existence (and only four months of those were Carver free).
By the time he reached what had to be a gate, Hawke was wholly confident that Carver was old and gray, regaling impossibly conceived grandchildren of what a bastard his older brother was.
The wolf snorted, and his dark eyes roved across the frankly obscene collection of bells, though the "declarations of war" with the painted arrow better harnessed his attention. It was an ominous arrow, but Hawke had ignored worse warning signs, if that was what it served to be. "I'll bite," he murmured, peeking over the nigh imperceptibly quivering basket. Ah. Snakes. Not the garden variety, either, unless the garden happened to be of the wild savanna sort. Carefully slow, Hawke stepped back, content to - just this once - mind his business.
That lasted for all of three seconds, when he moseyed over to the bells, unreservedly slapping one. It was a dead ringer for a certain thick-headed sibling of his, minus the pretty trimmings.
He loved beating his problems to death as much as the next person (perhaps even more so, truthfully) but when his problem was in itself a death, he couldn't desecrate his sister's body or memory by attempting to throttle either out of his head. Hawke held few things sacred, but Bethany was the closest to a saint he would ever revere. His little brother considerably less so, who was another of Hawke's issues, and one he was sorely tempted to knock the shit out of. That, however, would upset Mother. Granted, that had hardly kept him from clubbing dear Carver in the past (so, so satisfying, little brother), but Bethany's loss had unbalanced their sturdy quad - quadrio? quadro? - quartet arrangement into a wobbling trio. They were, after father's death, a still fairly handsome four-legged oaken table that later lost a leg with Bethany, and a three-legged table was more useless than nipples on a breastplate.
A two legged table even less so, but moping around a hovel had only agreed with Hawke for the first five minutes before he needed to escape the despondent sighs and baleful glares.
Was he running away? Certainly. Was he planning on addressing his predicament? No - the answer to the first question should have made that obvious. So suffice it to say, Hawke would not be beating his issues to death with a hefty stick, unfortunately. Rather, he was plodding across what had to be the longest, shittiest excuse for a bridge he had ever walked in all of his almost two years of existence (and only four months of those were Carver free).
By the time he reached what had to be a gate, Hawke was wholly confident that Carver was old and gray, regaling impossibly conceived grandchildren of what a bastard his older brother was.
The wolf snorted, and his dark eyes roved across the frankly obscene collection of bells, though the "declarations of war" with the painted arrow better harnessed his attention. It was an ominous arrow, but Hawke had ignored worse warning signs, if that was what it served to be. "I'll bite," he murmured, peeking over the nigh imperceptibly quivering basket. Ah. Snakes. Not the garden variety, either, unless the garden happened to be of the wild savanna sort. Carefully slow, Hawke stepped back, content to - just this once - mind his business.
That lasted for all of three seconds, when he moseyed over to the bells, unreservedly slapping one. It was a dead ringer for a certain thick-headed sibling of his, minus the pretty trimmings.
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LAUGHING WITH A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD ✕