10-03-2019, 07:45 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]Despite what La Dama thinks, Marco is no stray dog. He is not lost, thought it most likely seemed that way upon first meeting her. He left on his own, determined to be independent. Being the burden someone must bear is a burden within itself; he is a strain upon those with too many mouths to feed already, which is why he left the lodge in the first place.
He wants to be on his own, like before, but for some reason there seems to be a bright neon sign above his head spelling out LEGAL OBLIGATION. Is it that obvious? he wonders. His body may be all messed up, but he insists he’s still all there. Well, he hopes so. He had assumed it would heal in time, but it’s been nearly a year and he’s made no progress. Part of him is convinced he’s only gotten worse.
He met La Dama in the winding streets, calling out for someone. It was so curious that he had to stop in his tracks and watch for a minute--he would have been content to continue on his merry little way had she not noticed him and immediately and forcibly taken him under her wing. One can only insist ”estoy bien” so many times without result until it’s pointless to try anymore. So he lets her drag him to wherever she’s going, stumbling over his own feet in an attempt to keep up while on her leash.
Now, he grows tired of it. The sharp pang of hunger has given way to irritation--he would have snapped at her by now if he had the words for it.
”Oye, suéltame!” Marco whines, weakly attempting to tug his arm free from La Dama’s ever-tight grip. She doesn’t need to drag him around like a cat on a leash; he can walk just fine on his own. He would even say that she’s making it more difficult.
He’s been so focused on trying to free himself from her vice grip that he hasn’t noticed the change in surrounding. It’s the sudden smell of the sea on the wind that makes him look up and take it all in, with some hint of confusion mixed with surprise. Marco had no clue they were so close to the ocean.
What a pleasant surprise.
When La Dama starts to slow, he finally manages to wrench his wrist from her hand. The force he exerts makes him wobble, and, lacking the balance to keep upright, he ends up falling flat on his ass in the gravel.
”Rathole,” he repeats to himself, wondering what she could possibly mean by that. While Olga sees yet another crumbling dump, Marco is actually very much reminded of his old home. He can find some comfort in that.
”...what are we doing here?” If La Dama ever told him why they were traveling so far, he either wasn’t listening or just can’t remember ... in all likelihood, it’s probably a mixture of both.
He wants to be on his own, like before, but for some reason there seems to be a bright neon sign above his head spelling out LEGAL OBLIGATION. Is it that obvious? he wonders. His body may be all messed up, but he insists he’s still all there. Well, he hopes so. He had assumed it would heal in time, but it’s been nearly a year and he’s made no progress. Part of him is convinced he’s only gotten worse.
He met La Dama in the winding streets, calling out for someone. It was so curious that he had to stop in his tracks and watch for a minute--he would have been content to continue on his merry little way had she not noticed him and immediately and forcibly taken him under her wing. One can only insist ”estoy bien” so many times without result until it’s pointless to try anymore. So he lets her drag him to wherever she’s going, stumbling over his own feet in an attempt to keep up while on her leash.
Now, he grows tired of it. The sharp pang of hunger has given way to irritation--he would have snapped at her by now if he had the words for it.
”Oye, suéltame!” Marco whines, weakly attempting to tug his arm free from La Dama’s ever-tight grip. She doesn’t need to drag him around like a cat on a leash; he can walk just fine on his own. He would even say that she’s making it more difficult.
He’s been so focused on trying to free himself from her vice grip that he hasn’t noticed the change in surrounding. It’s the sudden smell of the sea on the wind that makes him look up and take it all in, with some hint of confusion mixed with surprise. Marco had no clue they were so close to the ocean.
What a pleasant surprise.
When La Dama starts to slow, he finally manages to wrench his wrist from her hand. The force he exerts makes him wobble, and, lacking the balance to keep upright, he ends up falling flat on his ass in the gravel.
”Rathole,” he repeats to himself, wondering what she could possibly mean by that. While Olga sees yet another crumbling dump, Marco is actually very much reminded of his old home. He can find some comfort in that.
”...what are we doing here?” If La Dama ever told him why they were traveling so far, he either wasn’t listening or just can’t remember ... in all likelihood, it’s probably a mixture of both.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug