09-10-2019, 12:45 AM
Troubled was a light term in describing the cur's viewpoint on life.
Time and time again his amber hues peered through the aged windowpanes of Crow's abode, gazing longingly at the lively passerby trudging along the town street. Healthy, young souls, each with bountiful futures awaiting them. Every life had a story, and the active Tanglers who were out and about had a plethora of chapters sitting between the current day, and the ending. Pages upon pages of heroic deeds, inspiring tales of woe, with interludes of cheesy romance sprinkled here and there. At the same time, there were the tearjerker moments, the times where all hope is lost and a positive outcome did not seem plausible in the slightest. Also among the oncoming pages were arcs of life, and arcs of death. Elements of love, and elements of hate. Traces of hope and ruin, humour and despair, fortune and mistfortune, and harmony and violence.
For the hound, as it seemed, the closing sentence to his tale sat barely beyond the horizon. All that needed to be said had been said, and he had no say in the matter. Living to see winter wasn't seen as plausible anymore. Hell, making it past Hallowe'en was more of a hopeless dream than all else by this point. The reality of it was bleak - the date of his demise sat a mere amount of weeks away. But, that's life. C'est-la-fucking-vie. Collapsing and crying about it wouldn't solve anything. Instead, for the remainder of his days, whilst the intensity of his condition gradually amplified, the majority of the decrepit male's minutes were spent watching. Watching those who got to live their lives free of worry. Not only watching, but reading, as well. Every life has a story, as established before, and Leroy considered himself something of an avid reader.
The problem was that only so much could be read from an individual's physical appearance, which was what he was limited to while cooped up in a building.
A gaunt paw extends towards the house's entrance, nudging the door so that it'd fall adjacent - but only to a marginal degree. The gap between wall and door became the temporary habitat of a lone, amber peeper, which meticulously scrutinized the outdoors for any signals pointing towards potential danger. No rogue gators roaming the streets. No good-for-nothing Pittians looming in the shadows. No vengeful spirits. No nothing. Clearly, the coast was clear. An elevated level of confidence now surged within him; he was ready for the outside world.
Between his pads once more, the road felt nice. Its stony crust was much cooler now that the hotter months had come to pass. The scrawny mongrel moseyed along the path's flank, making decent ground with the condition he was currently in. His goal was social interaction - ironic, seeing how he'd deliberately avoided that exact thing since the summer had commenced.
Being on death's doorstep changed one's opinions, however. If someone were to approach, he'd strike up a conversation without hesitation.
[member=6881]wormwood.[/member]
Time and time again his amber hues peered through the aged windowpanes of Crow's abode, gazing longingly at the lively passerby trudging along the town street. Healthy, young souls, each with bountiful futures awaiting them. Every life had a story, and the active Tanglers who were out and about had a plethora of chapters sitting between the current day, and the ending. Pages upon pages of heroic deeds, inspiring tales of woe, with interludes of cheesy romance sprinkled here and there. At the same time, there were the tearjerker moments, the times where all hope is lost and a positive outcome did not seem plausible in the slightest. Also among the oncoming pages were arcs of life, and arcs of death. Elements of love, and elements of hate. Traces of hope and ruin, humour and despair, fortune and mistfortune, and harmony and violence.
For the hound, as it seemed, the closing sentence to his tale sat barely beyond the horizon. All that needed to be said had been said, and he had no say in the matter. Living to see winter wasn't seen as plausible anymore. Hell, making it past Hallowe'en was more of a hopeless dream than all else by this point. The reality of it was bleak - the date of his demise sat a mere amount of weeks away. But, that's life. C'est-la-fucking-vie. Collapsing and crying about it wouldn't solve anything. Instead, for the remainder of his days, whilst the intensity of his condition gradually amplified, the majority of the decrepit male's minutes were spent watching. Watching those who got to live their lives free of worry. Not only watching, but reading, as well. Every life has a story, as established before, and Leroy considered himself something of an avid reader.
The problem was that only so much could be read from an individual's physical appearance, which was what he was limited to while cooped up in a building.
A gaunt paw extends towards the house's entrance, nudging the door so that it'd fall adjacent - but only to a marginal degree. The gap between wall and door became the temporary habitat of a lone, amber peeper, which meticulously scrutinized the outdoors for any signals pointing towards potential danger. No rogue gators roaming the streets. No good-for-nothing Pittians looming in the shadows. No vengeful spirits. No nothing. Clearly, the coast was clear. An elevated level of confidence now surged within him; he was ready for the outside world.
Between his pads once more, the road felt nice. Its stony crust was much cooler now that the hotter months had come to pass. The scrawny mongrel moseyed along the path's flank, making decent ground with the condition he was currently in. His goal was social interaction - ironic, seeing how he'd deliberately avoided that exact thing since the summer had commenced.
Being on death's doorstep changed one's opinions, however. If someone were to approach, he'd strike up a conversation without hesitation.
[member=6881]wormwood.[/member]