05-07-2018, 11:04 PM
If only he shared the same relief as Marco when their native tongue fell upon his ears. While his language didn't sound quite so odd coming from his own mouth, he hadn't heard another talk back to his foreign babbling since he was only a little kid. He didn't like stirring old memories, much less being thrown back into them. But it couldn't have been him, he was supposed to be dead, in fact, they were both supposed to be. For the sake of his fragile psyche, Marco's language, name, and arrival was nothing more than an eerie coincidence that reminded him too much of the brother who fell limp and assumedly lifeless in his arms. The poltergeist slouched to thoughtlessly stare at the mud with a glaze over his eyes, an uncertain huff breaking his silence.
He perked from his hunched stance at his name being parroted back at him, scarred brow creasing at the hushed tone coming from the lynx. His maw parted slightly to interrupt with a rude quip, irritation quickly overwhelming any previous feelings of doubt. Then his name was uttered a third time, a label stuck at the end for no apparent reason -- Beck froze in place as realization more or less whacked him over the head. Fisher, that was really his last name? It sounded so plain and at the same time so precious to him. It was the missing half of his identity, a surname stolen from him by time and neglect. The mental barricade withholding his decaying memory was breached with only two syllables, leaking blurred feelings and colors of the past back into his lifeless brain and successfully dumbfounding him. A numb expression had been plastered over his face, unable to recover quick enough from his stunned state before Marco's mouth was running again. How did he know who he was? What was he supposed to do?
His frigid apparition gave an unstable ripple as he struggled to process everything, bobbing his head up and down in a daze before frantically nodding along to his brother's rambling, yet his luminous eyes remained unfocused still. He plopped back onto his haunches, disfigured snout twitching as if searching for words to use with no luck. Did that mean he had been wrong about his brother's premature end for five centuries? His bony frame sagged at the thought of if he hadn't been so quick to abandon his corpse; he wouldn't have had to scrounge around in the streets, he wouldn't have had to kill anybody, he wouldn't have died. A bloodless lip trembled in shock, refusing to believe that an avoidable mistake sentenced him to death. "But -- but you died, I thought you died --" he stammered and trailed off into wheezy sniffles, failing to switch back to the language Marco could understand. But his entire world had just crumpled, an existential crisis was a far higher priority than switching in and out of languages on accident, or even registering the familiar dog watching from the bushes despite his ears swiveling out of reflex to pinpoint their voice.
[align=center]»――➤He perked from his hunched stance at his name being parroted back at him, scarred brow creasing at the hushed tone coming from the lynx. His maw parted slightly to interrupt with a rude quip, irritation quickly overwhelming any previous feelings of doubt. Then his name was uttered a third time, a label stuck at the end for no apparent reason -- Beck froze in place as realization more or less whacked him over the head. Fisher, that was really his last name? It sounded so plain and at the same time so precious to him. It was the missing half of his identity, a surname stolen from him by time and neglect. The mental barricade withholding his decaying memory was breached with only two syllables, leaking blurred feelings and colors of the past back into his lifeless brain and successfully dumbfounding him. A numb expression had been plastered over his face, unable to recover quick enough from his stunned state before Marco's mouth was running again. How did he know who he was? What was he supposed to do?
His frigid apparition gave an unstable ripple as he struggled to process everything, bobbing his head up and down in a daze before frantically nodding along to his brother's rambling, yet his luminous eyes remained unfocused still. He plopped back onto his haunches, disfigured snout twitching as if searching for words to use with no luck. Did that mean he had been wrong about his brother's premature end for five centuries? His bony frame sagged at the thought of if he hadn't been so quick to abandon his corpse; he wouldn't have had to scrounge around in the streets, he wouldn't have had to kill anybody, he wouldn't have died. A bloodless lip trembled in shock, refusing to believe that an avoidable mistake sentenced him to death. "But -- but you died, I thought you died --" he stammered and trailed off into wheezy sniffles, failing to switch back to the language Marco could understand. But his entire world had just crumpled, an existential crisis was a far higher priority than switching in and out of languages on accident, or even registering the familiar dog watching from the bushes despite his ears swiveling out of reflex to pinpoint their voice.