01-14-2019, 08:18 PM
A while ago, just as the holiday season began rolling in, Wendell had been decorating Sunhaven’s grounds in appropriate decor one evening. The twang of eggnog stung his nostrils, but it was a reminder of the joyous days to come. Laughter erupted from the very same throat which had fallen victim to a bounteous amount peppermint-flavoured candies. When the joking had ceased and delicious drink did not flow through through the wolverine’s system, he’d hum the tunes to songs of the season. Things appeared as if this happiness was the most bliss the male had enjoyed in the longest time.
Exactly one day later, he found himself barely holding on to bare sanity in the sands of the Pitt, whilst Stryker pummeled the mustelid’s jaw into oblivion, in a similar fashion to a piñata. In this case however, it was not delectable treats that the lion was trying to fetch; instead, the former Ardent walloped Wendell’s maw until all function terminated, and when it lay irresponsive to the Sunbearer’s control, Stryker violently discarded the many teeth of Wendell’s mouth.
Twats like that didn’t care for killing, did they? They would much rather ruin another’s life by mutilation and scarring over letting one off easy by a slash to the throat.
Actions such as the atrocities committed on the poor, misfortunate being kick off a butterfly effect. As a result of his deficiency of teeth, coming by a healthy diet turned from child’s play to strenuous. And as a result of the difficulty in finding fitting food, more nights had passed without meals than with. And, as a result of THAT, a newfound weakness in malnourishment became present in his day-to-day life.
After the event, it wasn’t all bad. Those with the convenient healing capabilities made haste in patching him right up, as well as prescribing him proper painkillers. Easily-manageable foods spotted by the friendly folks of Sunhaven found themselves at Wendell’s doorstep. And the drink assisted in taking the edge off.
That does not mean everything’s been elementary since. As a man who found delirium in sharing stories, an impairment in the speech department hit the mustelid hard. Without the tool used in generating merriment, what was the point? What was he but a stinky husk without the ability to communicate? These thoughts made him ponder in his houseboat, which became something of a cave, as it was nowadays dimly lit and muggy. And in this cave, he got plastered - almost on the nightly.
So what aspired him to leave? What was it that shook off the burden that heavily rested on his weakened shoulders? Who can say, at this point? The world’s become so much of a predictable shitshow, a spontaneous and unpredictable commotion was desperately needed.
So much had happened in his absence, he’d realize. Both Christmastime and the New Year came and went, not to mention the resignment of Bucky.
It was all... so weird. That was the best way anyone in his shoes could possibly put it.
A patch of grass - dying, but it would do - just over yonder. There. The perfect seating area. The perfect seating and eating area.
He set himself up on a throw blanket. A kettle, warmed up from earlier, and a handful of teacups. As well sat some mounds of bread, meant to be moistened before consumption. He may not be able to talk, but he could try to sign. Other than that, and his deathly-skinny conditions, he was the same Wendell Harrowsmith that some had known before.
The birds sang, the salt tickled his nose - though cold, it was the perfect day to return.
Exactly one day later, he found himself barely holding on to bare sanity in the sands of the Pitt, whilst Stryker pummeled the mustelid’s jaw into oblivion, in a similar fashion to a piñata. In this case however, it was not delectable treats that the lion was trying to fetch; instead, the former Ardent walloped Wendell’s maw until all function terminated, and when it lay irresponsive to the Sunbearer’s control, Stryker violently discarded the many teeth of Wendell’s mouth.
Twats like that didn’t care for killing, did they? They would much rather ruin another’s life by mutilation and scarring over letting one off easy by a slash to the throat.
Actions such as the atrocities committed on the poor, misfortunate being kick off a butterfly effect. As a result of his deficiency of teeth, coming by a healthy diet turned from child’s play to strenuous. And as a result of the difficulty in finding fitting food, more nights had passed without meals than with. And, as a result of THAT, a newfound weakness in malnourishment became present in his day-to-day life.
After the event, it wasn’t all bad. Those with the convenient healing capabilities made haste in patching him right up, as well as prescribing him proper painkillers. Easily-manageable foods spotted by the friendly folks of Sunhaven found themselves at Wendell’s doorstep. And the drink assisted in taking the edge off.
That does not mean everything’s been elementary since. As a man who found delirium in sharing stories, an impairment in the speech department hit the mustelid hard. Without the tool used in generating merriment, what was the point? What was he but a stinky husk without the ability to communicate? These thoughts made him ponder in his houseboat, which became something of a cave, as it was nowadays dimly lit and muggy. And in this cave, he got plastered - almost on the nightly.
So what aspired him to leave? What was it that shook off the burden that heavily rested on his weakened shoulders? Who can say, at this point? The world’s become so much of a predictable shitshow, a spontaneous and unpredictable commotion was desperately needed.
So much had happened in his absence, he’d realize. Both Christmastime and the New Year came and went, not to mention the resignment of Bucky.
It was all... so weird. That was the best way anyone in his shoes could possibly put it.
A patch of grass - dying, but it would do - just over yonder. There. The perfect seating area. The perfect seating and eating area.
He set himself up on a throw blanket. A kettle, warmed up from earlier, and a handful of teacups. As well sat some mounds of bread, meant to be moistened before consumption. He may not be able to talk, but he could try to sign. Other than that, and his deathly-skinny conditions, he was the same Wendell Harrowsmith that some had known before.
The birds sang, the salt tickled his nose - though cold, it was the perfect day to return.