03-27-2018, 02:39 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]/ i'm sorry this is so long, i have muse. only the last paragraph matters, and please don't feel like you have to match this or anything!
Buck has been traveling for much longer than he would have liked. Perhaps that was because somewhere behind him lies both a home and a grave, or perhaps that was simply because his paws were sore. One was simple and the other was not quite so simple, but it still becomes almost impossible to separate those hurts some days  for most, he's stopped trying. That isn't to say that flowers haven't grown over the grave, or that his paws haven't earned their callouses, but there are some pains that simply don't fade. He hopes that his love  his reason for walking  understands that. They don't talk about it in his dreams. (Anything but that, really.) Or sometimes they just lay there, and Buck marvels at how his mane tickles. He didn't realize how much he would miss it. Or anything else about him. The speckles on his nose or the light sound of his breathing, the comfortable press of the lion's side against his own when they breathed in tandem. He hadn't taken it for granted, but he hadn't known.
For a while, seeing him again was the only reason he slept. He has since found others  necessity, rest, and hope in that order  but that didn't lessen his yearning for the first. It's been far too long since he's felt that warmth during the daylight hours, and Buck has since accepted a freedom he never wanted to have. After searching for it his entire life, he never thought he'd end up saying that he was given too much. Nothing has held him in place for well over a year now, and however certain he may be of that freedom, he finds that he would have preferred remaining tied to another lost tumbleweed. Even if they tried to roll in opposite directions a little too often. (Maybe especially for that.)
Still, even with the weight of his heartache, the wounds in his chest have healed. He spent a long time searching for something to care for, and while he hasn't found that, he's content. Sometimes his introspection finds him wondering what exactly he was content with. He may never have a full answer, but he'll often answer, his tone gentle and calm, the future. Whatever may be in front of him is better than what lays behind. There is no clean answer to his past, no neat lesson to be learned from his suffering. But tomorrow  well, perhaps there's something there. He would have to find out one way or another, would he not? Either through experience or regret? He's chosen experience. It had at one point been a decision made for someone else, but the longer he chooses it, the better he feels. While he couldn't say he had always made this choice, he could say that this is no longer who he is.
Sometimes he finds himself honestly believing it.
So he walks. His steps have left imprints on the ground in one long trail, tall strands of grass slowly recovering behind him. Radiation had scarred these lands not too long ago, but the world's slow recovery has given vibrance and mystery to something that should have been dead. A light reminder tickles the back of his mind, the name of another who would have loved this new world  he smiles in agreement and allows his thoughts to move on. His heavy form seems out of place here, with a thick coat meant for winter and a body meant for hard work, but the sun glints off of dark, well-kept fur and violet eyes are attentive as they sweep the area near him. He's heard of the groups forming again, and although his emotions are complicated and messy, though quiet, he's here to see them. Maybe he comes here with no intention to stay; just another tumbleweed rolling through town. Or perhaps he'll find peace here, whatever that may look like. (He doubts it, but like his other complicated emotions, doubt is quiet.)
From where he's paused, the grass now coarse and sandy at the shoreline, he can see an island off in the distance. One of the groups that he's been informed of, surely. At least if the strong bitter smell of the water means anything. The idea of swimming there has the canine looking tired and irritated, but he trusts his own paws better than any damn boat. Besides, he's a good swimmer. Months in rivers and lakes kept him healthy and strong. Now he's shaking off memories of the water with a long inhale, feeling watery wind on his tongue.
★ The swim was a difficult one, even by his standards. The canine arrives on the shore out of breath and sore, battered from the tip of his nose to the pads of his paws. No part of him is dry now, having won a fight with waves crashing over his head a few times. Thick brown fur clings to a well-muscled body, and many of the scars typically hidden behind a thick winter coat are now on full display. Long, gruesome lines and shorter accidents, curling along his rib cage or behind his ear. Buck is an intimidating figure, yet he carries himself with a domineering kindness, some strange mix of disobedient and careful. Even panting, paws spread to keep his balance when his head is swaying, the canine looks put together. Eventually he finds his legs enough to settle down, shaking his fur out on the way. Water droplets spray the sand and water still laps at his heels, but he knows better than to trespass too far into their territory. He knows how these groups work. So he waits for someone to approach him with a light sense of trepidation despite his confidence, the worry on there for the wonder of something new.
Buck has been traveling for much longer than he would have liked. Perhaps that was because somewhere behind him lies both a home and a grave, or perhaps that was simply because his paws were sore. One was simple and the other was not quite so simple, but it still becomes almost impossible to separate those hurts some days  for most, he's stopped trying. That isn't to say that flowers haven't grown over the grave, or that his paws haven't earned their callouses, but there are some pains that simply don't fade. He hopes that his love  his reason for walking  understands that. They don't talk about it in his dreams. (Anything but that, really.) Or sometimes they just lay there, and Buck marvels at how his mane tickles. He didn't realize how much he would miss it. Or anything else about him. The speckles on his nose or the light sound of his breathing, the comfortable press of the lion's side against his own when they breathed in tandem. He hadn't taken it for granted, but he hadn't known.
For a while, seeing him again was the only reason he slept. He has since found others  necessity, rest, and hope in that order  but that didn't lessen his yearning for the first. It's been far too long since he's felt that warmth during the daylight hours, and Buck has since accepted a freedom he never wanted to have. After searching for it his entire life, he never thought he'd end up saying that he was given too much. Nothing has held him in place for well over a year now, and however certain he may be of that freedom, he finds that he would have preferred remaining tied to another lost tumbleweed. Even if they tried to roll in opposite directions a little too often. (Maybe especially for that.)
Still, even with the weight of his heartache, the wounds in his chest have healed. He spent a long time searching for something to care for, and while he hasn't found that, he's content. Sometimes his introspection finds him wondering what exactly he was content with. He may never have a full answer, but he'll often answer, his tone gentle and calm, the future. Whatever may be in front of him is better than what lays behind. There is no clean answer to his past, no neat lesson to be learned from his suffering. But tomorrow  well, perhaps there's something there. He would have to find out one way or another, would he not? Either through experience or regret? He's chosen experience. It had at one point been a decision made for someone else, but the longer he chooses it, the better he feels. While he couldn't say he had always made this choice, he could say that this is no longer who he is.
Sometimes he finds himself honestly believing it.
So he walks. His steps have left imprints on the ground in one long trail, tall strands of grass slowly recovering behind him. Radiation had scarred these lands not too long ago, but the world's slow recovery has given vibrance and mystery to something that should have been dead. A light reminder tickles the back of his mind, the name of another who would have loved this new world  he smiles in agreement and allows his thoughts to move on. His heavy form seems out of place here, with a thick coat meant for winter and a body meant for hard work, but the sun glints off of dark, well-kept fur and violet eyes are attentive as they sweep the area near him. He's heard of the groups forming again, and although his emotions are complicated and messy, though quiet, he's here to see them. Maybe he comes here with no intention to stay; just another tumbleweed rolling through town. Or perhaps he'll find peace here, whatever that may look like. (He doubts it, but like his other complicated emotions, doubt is quiet.)
From where he's paused, the grass now coarse and sandy at the shoreline, he can see an island off in the distance. One of the groups that he's been informed of, surely. At least if the strong bitter smell of the water means anything. The idea of swimming there has the canine looking tired and irritated, but he trusts his own paws better than any damn boat. Besides, he's a good swimmer. Months in rivers and lakes kept him healthy and strong. Now he's shaking off memories of the water with a long inhale, feeling watery wind on his tongue.
★ The swim was a difficult one, even by his standards. The canine arrives on the shore out of breath and sore, battered from the tip of his nose to the pads of his paws. No part of him is dry now, having won a fight with waves crashing over his head a few times. Thick brown fur clings to a well-muscled body, and many of the scars typically hidden behind a thick winter coat are now on full display. Long, gruesome lines and shorter accidents, curling along his rib cage or behind his ear. Buck is an intimidating figure, yet he carries himself with a domineering kindness, some strange mix of disobedient and careful. Even panting, paws spread to keep his balance when his head is swaying, the canine looks put together. Eventually he finds his legs enough to settle down, shaking his fur out on the way. Water droplets spray the sand and water still laps at his heels, but he knows better than to trespass too far into their territory. He knows how these groups work. So he waits for someone to approach him with a light sense of trepidation despite his confidence, the worry on there for the wonder of something new.
[align=center][div style="font-size:13.34pt;line-height:.9;color:#000;font-family:arial black;padding:8px;margin-left:1px"]â€â€Ã¢â‚¬â€ &. I AM NOT SURE AT ALL IF LOVE IS A SALVE
[div style="width:495px;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-bottom:5px;margin-top:1px;"][justify]
OR JUST A DEEPER KIND OF WOUND. I DO NOT THINK IT MATTERS. | BUCK, FLINTLOCK ･:*:･ﾟ★
[ 6'2 CIS MALE / & / A CALM YET EMOTIONALLY CHALLENGED FORMER MERCENARY SNIPER ] [color=transparent]â€â€Ã¢â‚¬â€
[div style="width:495px;font-size:8pt;line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-bottom:5px;margin-top:1px;"][justify]
OR JUST A DEEPER KIND OF WOUND. I DO NOT THINK IT MATTERS. | BUCK, FLINTLOCK ･:*:･ﾟ★
[ 6'2 CIS MALE / & / A CALM YET EMOTIONALLY CHALLENGED FORMER MERCENARY SNIPER ] [color=transparent]â€â€Ã¢â‚¬â€