09-12-2017, 02:25 PM
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Breathing inwardly, the white-haired man continues to walk in no particular direction. He's out here by himself because he's halfway hoping to come across someone who will put him out of his misery for the sake of the others, but his main motive is to check the fences. After all, they'd simply climbed over them before, or perhaps they'd found a gap. Either way, he wanted to make sure that their territory was entirely secure so that the next time they were attacked, it would be a little harder to get in. However, in his slow walk along the fence, he noticed the slightly tinny tone of... Music, overflowing from earbuds. Music? When was the last time he's heard music?
His steps quicken, and he hurries toward the sound, forgetting about his job in his hopes to find where the music is coming from, entirely uncaring of who exactly this is. However, it was when he came across two men, one being someone he didn't know and the other being Wolfbite, that the young man hesitated, stopping a little ways behind Wolf. Would he get mad at him for being out here alone? Probably. But... But this was his life, and he wasn't just going to lay around when he could be doing something, even though he was hurt. Even though all of this was his fault. Taking in a breath, the sickly man squares his shoulders, then steps forward to stand next to Wolf. He doesn't address him, nor does he send him a glance. This is his decision, and he is refusing to be guilty about it. He runs his blue eyes over the man before him, resting them on the weapons that are visible on his body. Jesus? Ironic. [b] "And—" he pauses, trying to steady his quiet voice, still struggling to speak due to his recent injury,"—drop y-your- your weapons."
[div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736...-white.jpg); background-position: left; background-size:cover; color:transparent;"]a
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[abbr=biography && tags in signature]cecil winters[/abbr] &― he covered up my teary eyes ,
[div style="bgcolor=; border: none; width: 375px; padding: 0px; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; color: #262626; font-family: arial; text-transform:lowercase; margin-top:0px; padding-bottom:20px; margin-top:-2px;"]Cecil is unsure if he should even go outside anymore. The looming threat of the Badlands, as well as the painful reality that he was the one responsible for their raid after being taken by the Italian man—Lucky Luciano, he reminded himself—is weighing down on his shoulders like a ton of weights. His wounds scream in their pain from overexerting himself. He feels as if he's failed Northstar, failed himself. People had been killed, and it was his fault. If he'd just kept his mouth shut... If he'd just done what Charlie had asked him to do, everything would have turned out okay. Wolfbite wouldn't have gotten hurt, nor would Dylan, or Charlie, or Advay, or Margaux, or anyone. He feels bad for both Northerners and Badlanders, though he keeps to himself about this. What would his groupmates say if he told them he didn't want anyone to fight? That he'd wanted to keep everyone, from both groups, safe? They'd think he was a pissbaby, that was what. And so, he'd stayed quiet. He should have just done that from the beginning.Breathing inwardly, the white-haired man continues to walk in no particular direction. He's out here by himself because he's halfway hoping to come across someone who will put him out of his misery for the sake of the others, but his main motive is to check the fences. After all, they'd simply climbed over them before, or perhaps they'd found a gap. Either way, he wanted to make sure that their territory was entirely secure so that the next time they were attacked, it would be a little harder to get in. However, in his slow walk along the fence, he noticed the slightly tinny tone of... Music, overflowing from earbuds. Music? When was the last time he's heard music?
His steps quicken, and he hurries toward the sound, forgetting about his job in his hopes to find where the music is coming from, entirely uncaring of who exactly this is. However, it was when he came across two men, one being someone he didn't know and the other being Wolfbite, that the young man hesitated, stopping a little ways behind Wolf. Would he get mad at him for being out here alone? Probably. But... But this was his life, and he wasn't just going to lay around when he could be doing something, even though he was hurt. Even though all of this was his fault. Taking in a breath, the sickly man squares his shoulders, then steps forward to stand next to Wolf. He doesn't address him, nor does he send him a glance. This is his decision, and he is refusing to be guilty about it. He runs his blue eyes over the man before him, resting them on the weapons that are visible on his body. Jesus? Ironic. [b] "And—" he pauses, trying to steady his quiet voice, still struggling to speak due to his recent injury,"—drop y-your- your weapons."
[div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: 300px; font-size: 7pt; line-height: 100%; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: black"] "I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT EVERY TIME I TELL YOU TO GET HOME SAFE, STAY WARM, HAVE A GOOD DAY, OR SLEEP WELL WHAT I'M REALLY SAYING IS "I LOVE YOU." I LOVE YOU SO MUCH THAT IT'S STARTING TO STEAL OTHER WORDS' MEANINGS. I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT. I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU'RE VALID." CECIL WINTERS / NORTHSTAR / ½ WOLFBUCK â€â€Â