01-16-2020, 11:20 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"][align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"][tw for violence and injuries]
When Grandpa didn't call his name down the street, limping along the ditch with forgiving arms wide open, Elwin assumed his exile is permanent this time.
It stings all the same, despite being the fifth time in two months he's been thrown out or run away. Grandpa, a tiny man that barely comes up to Elwin's chest, has a booming, powerful voice that shakes the whole neighborhood when he yells, and rattles his body to the core. Nothing is more numbing than a man with the voice of Zeus himself instilling the fact that you are little more than a failure and a delinquent (or a good-for-nothing son of a bitch, as Grandpa so gently put it) into your brain. He believes it, alright. How could he not, after that display?
Usually their petty fights resolve an hour or two after Elwin storms out, slamming the screen door so hard it comes off its hinges. Usually, Grandpa will sit and huff and puff in the parlor until he feels bad enough to come looking for him, but not this time. This time, there wasn't any screen door to slam. It had gone up in flames, just like the rest of the house.
Well, Grandpa came home to the smoldering pile of rubble that night, took one look at the ash, then at Elwin's dirty, blackened body, and socked him so hard he fell flat and saw stars. They got into a screaming match—which was rather one-sided, given that Elwin's jaw had popped out of place with all of Grandpa's effort. All he could really do was whine and moan in return, clutching his face.
When Grandpa took another swing at him, hollering bloody murder, Elwin knew it was time to bolt. Holding his chin with one hand, using the other to push himself up, he fled the scene with little more than the clothes on his back and the matches in his pockets.
His face ached like nothing else, but he didn't want to stop running til he was far out of sight and out of the village. He cried angry tears the whole way, trying to keep his sobbing to a minimum to quell the pain in his jaw.
Flintlock is not unknown to him, but he's never strayed this far before. Elwin would be breathing a sigh of relief if it didn't make him scream; he's glad to see the lights, and know that there's somewhere warm to hole himself up in just a few yards ahead. Of course, he'd have to wait for permission to enter, but he's banking on the fact that they might take pity on him, due to the current state of his face.
But it's late at night, and there doesn't seem to be many people milling about, or none that he can see (save for the smattering of what he assumes to be guards or stragglers in the distance.) He wants to be able to explain himself, and worm his way into a bed, but in his state, he can't get a word out without more hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
So, Elwin decides he might as well stick his fingers in his mouth and do it himself.
It's not easy to do, compared to his experiences reducing the jaws and shoulders of men and women in his neighborhood, mostly because his own body is fighting against it to prevent anymore unnecessary pain. But he manages, and boy, does it hurt—such a harsh, shrill shriek rings out in the night, one might think he's being murdered.
It's over in a matter of minutes, and suddenly, a wave of sudden calm washes over him. Elwin lets out this dreamy little sigh, sinks to his knees, and sticks his face right into the snow. Ahhh. Sweet relief.
When Grandpa didn't call his name down the street, limping along the ditch with forgiving arms wide open, Elwin assumed his exile is permanent this time.
It stings all the same, despite being the fifth time in two months he's been thrown out or run away. Grandpa, a tiny man that barely comes up to Elwin's chest, has a booming, powerful voice that shakes the whole neighborhood when he yells, and rattles his body to the core. Nothing is more numbing than a man with the voice of Zeus himself instilling the fact that you are little more than a failure and a delinquent (or a good-for-nothing son of a bitch, as Grandpa so gently put it) into your brain. He believes it, alright. How could he not, after that display?
Usually their petty fights resolve an hour or two after Elwin storms out, slamming the screen door so hard it comes off its hinges. Usually, Grandpa will sit and huff and puff in the parlor until he feels bad enough to come looking for him, but not this time. This time, there wasn't any screen door to slam. It had gone up in flames, just like the rest of the house.
Well, Grandpa came home to the smoldering pile of rubble that night, took one look at the ash, then at Elwin's dirty, blackened body, and socked him so hard he fell flat and saw stars. They got into a screaming match—which was rather one-sided, given that Elwin's jaw had popped out of place with all of Grandpa's effort. All he could really do was whine and moan in return, clutching his face.
When Grandpa took another swing at him, hollering bloody murder, Elwin knew it was time to bolt. Holding his chin with one hand, using the other to push himself up, he fled the scene with little more than the clothes on his back and the matches in his pockets.
His face ached like nothing else, but he didn't want to stop running til he was far out of sight and out of the village. He cried angry tears the whole way, trying to keep his sobbing to a minimum to quell the pain in his jaw.
Flintlock is not unknown to him, but he's never strayed this far before. Elwin would be breathing a sigh of relief if it didn't make him scream; he's glad to see the lights, and know that there's somewhere warm to hole himself up in just a few yards ahead. Of course, he'd have to wait for permission to enter, but he's banking on the fact that they might take pity on him, due to the current state of his face.
But it's late at night, and there doesn't seem to be many people milling about, or none that he can see (save for the smattering of what he assumes to be guards or stragglers in the distance.) He wants to be able to explain himself, and worm his way into a bed, but in his state, he can't get a word out without more hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
So, Elwin decides he might as well stick his fingers in his mouth and do it himself.
It's not easy to do, compared to his experiences reducing the jaws and shoulders of men and women in his neighborhood, mostly because his own body is fighting against it to prevent anymore unnecessary pain. But he manages, and boy, does it hurt—such a harsh, shrill shriek rings out in the night, one might think he's being murdered.
It's over in a matter of minutes, and suddenly, a wave of sudden calm washes over him. Elwin lets out this dreamy little sigh, sinks to his knees, and sticks his face right into the snow. Ahhh. Sweet relief.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug