11-13-2018, 08:58 AM
[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; line-height:115%; text-align: justify;font-family: calibri;"]Desperado himself was caught between both wanting to destroy his demons, and being unable to do so out of some kind of subtle fear that seemed to prohibit him from it. Perhaps fear wasn't the right word for it, for Des did not feel particularly scared of what plagued him, but the emotions were far from positive regardless. His problems already had a nasty hold on him, something he blamed on the fact that they had been with him all the way back when he was nothing but a young, malleable child, and after such a long time it was impossible to separate himself from them without destroying himself in the process. He could always die, but already having done that and coming back just as sorry as he'd always been proved to him that the afterlife wasn't the answer to his issues.
So instead he was left to wallow in his own misery, and hope that one day that both the revenge and redemption would come. Revenge against those who hurt him, who had beaten him down into the man who had been forced to kill... redemption for those very people who died under his hand because it was the only thing that kept him alive. It was the harsh reality - sometimes to survive you had to do shit, and that shit was rarely nice. You sold your body and your soul to an organization just because it gave about two shits more than everyone else did about your life, even if it still didn't amount to anything great in the end. He was a pawn in the game, had been for some while... shit, even now he didn't feel in control. At least he wasn't being controlled anymore, not by any one person.
Or were the people in the past still so strongly influencing him that even in death he'd be a slave to them all? Even after they were all dead and gone, would he still belong to them?
There were too many questions and not enough time for him to answer all of them. No, actually, the time was there and would always be - that was the hand he had been dealt, a sorry excuse for immortality. It was the motivation that was lacking, for no matter how Des spun it he didn't feel like the effort was worth the result. People hated him, but he hated himself more than them all combined, and it was a struggle to convince himself that the effort was worth it when everyone else just kept proving to him that people like him couldn't change. He wanted to be good, but he had never done it before. He was lost as to where he should start, who he should turn to for help. Gabriel seemed like a good candidate... but he was terrified of the man for the same reasons he was terrified of all other relationships he made along the way. Friends always ended up either abandoning you, dead, or both. Des couldn't trust Gabe wouldn't turn out the same, and that when it happened he'd be even more lost than he had been when he started.
So it was along this self-made path that Desperado walked. It was a rocky, crevice-filled path but one he followed nevertheless, hoping that it would eventually lead to something worthwhile. He wasn't even asking for glory at this point, he wasn't searching for any city of gold. He just wanted rest. He was tired of fighting what he had been told his entire life. He just wanted it all to change already, and the path was as tiresome as the beginning had been. That path took him here, for now, at the foot of the border of the Typhoon's territory (and Sunhaven, actually, but that was simply because he had felt the need to run on occasion even from the place he tentatively called home.)
It seemed that others were also following both the literal and metaphorical train tracks to find something. It seemed to be a reoccurring pattern around these parts.
But as heavy and vast as his problems were, the lion was also uncannily good at hiding it. Everything was masked underneath an easy smile, gaze warm and gait all light as he sauntered over towards the sound of the bell, already trained to respond almost as if upon instinct. All the stress in his shoulders seemed nonexistant unless one knew what to look for, and at one, short glance he'd seem to be doing just fine with his life. It was why Gabriel was still trying to get him to crack, perhaps knowing Des' type enough to know he was hiding years of trauma underneath the lopsided grin.
But Hawke didn't. Or at least Des hoped he didn't. He didn't want more people trying to pry into his shit; his problems were deep, black and ugly, and not even he had started to unpack them all. He wasn't about to let strangers who thought they knew more about himself than he did try and help him.
So instead he was left to wallow in his own misery, and hope that one day that both the revenge and redemption would come. Revenge against those who hurt him, who had beaten him down into the man who had been forced to kill... redemption for those very people who died under his hand because it was the only thing that kept him alive. It was the harsh reality - sometimes to survive you had to do shit, and that shit was rarely nice. You sold your body and your soul to an organization just because it gave about two shits more than everyone else did about your life, even if it still didn't amount to anything great in the end. He was a pawn in the game, had been for some while... shit, even now he didn't feel in control. At least he wasn't being controlled anymore, not by any one person.
Or were the people in the past still so strongly influencing him that even in death he'd be a slave to them all? Even after they were all dead and gone, would he still belong to them?
There were too many questions and not enough time for him to answer all of them. No, actually, the time was there and would always be - that was the hand he had been dealt, a sorry excuse for immortality. It was the motivation that was lacking, for no matter how Des spun it he didn't feel like the effort was worth the result. People hated him, but he hated himself more than them all combined, and it was a struggle to convince himself that the effort was worth it when everyone else just kept proving to him that people like him couldn't change. He wanted to be good, but he had never done it before. He was lost as to where he should start, who he should turn to for help. Gabriel seemed like a good candidate... but he was terrified of the man for the same reasons he was terrified of all other relationships he made along the way. Friends always ended up either abandoning you, dead, or both. Des couldn't trust Gabe wouldn't turn out the same, and that when it happened he'd be even more lost than he had been when he started.
So it was along this self-made path that Desperado walked. It was a rocky, crevice-filled path but one he followed nevertheless, hoping that it would eventually lead to something worthwhile. He wasn't even asking for glory at this point, he wasn't searching for any city of gold. He just wanted rest. He was tired of fighting what he had been told his entire life. He just wanted it all to change already, and the path was as tiresome as the beginning had been. That path took him here, for now, at the foot of the border of the Typhoon's territory (and Sunhaven, actually, but that was simply because he had felt the need to run on occasion even from the place he tentatively called home.)
It seemed that others were also following both the literal and metaphorical train tracks to find something. It seemed to be a reoccurring pattern around these parts.
But as heavy and vast as his problems were, the lion was also uncannily good at hiding it. Everything was masked underneath an easy smile, gaze warm and gait all light as he sauntered over towards the sound of the bell, already trained to respond almost as if upon instinct. All the stress in his shoulders seemed nonexistant unless one knew what to look for, and at one, short glance he'd seem to be doing just fine with his life. It was why Gabriel was still trying to get him to crack, perhaps knowing Des' type enough to know he was hiding years of trauma underneath the lopsided grin.
But Hawke didn't. Or at least Des hoped he didn't. He didn't want more people trying to pry into his shit; his problems were deep, black and ugly, and not even he had started to unpack them all. He wasn't about to let strangers who thought they knew more about himself than he did try and help him.
♔ — I want brimstone in my garden