01-21-2020, 12:13 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"][tw abuse/arson lol]
Elwin is so, so bitter.
He's always been the type to hold grudges, even over the smallest matters. He held grudges when his mother forced him to eat his vegetables. He held a grudge when she died. He held a grudge when his father gave him up and he held a grudge when Grandpa tended to the peeling burns on the backs of his hands. Forgiveness is not a word in his vocabulary. Elwin will never forget how hard Grandpa hits, and he will never forget the glee he felt watching the walls crumble around him.
Even after such a massive act of destruction, setting fire to his home, letting it spread to the neighbors' yards, watching them run from their homes naked and wailing, the high only lasted so long. By the time he'd set his jaw and bolted up the mountain, landing at Flintlock's doorstep, he started to feel that same familiar itch.
He can only suppress the urge for so long until it becomes unbearable. He feels withdrawals in the same way an addict would, minus all the physical nausea and shakes that come with it.
He's been here for all of two days. He snatches papers and books from people's rooms, laughing at them for leaving their doors unlocked as he makes off with their goods. He steals things off the wall, and rips the locket off his chest, and throws that into the pile as well. Such a massive wave of relief washes over him when he strikes a match and drops it in the pile. He sinks to his knees in the melting snow and watches with wide eyes as the pile begins to burn, a stupid, dopey smile curling across his face. Much better.
He doesn't realize how close he gets until the heat of the fire becomes too unbearable against his skin. Elwin draws back suddenly with a gasp, touching his cold hands to his cheek. There's a moment where everything seems fine and he lets his body slump, eyes trained on the flames dancing before him, before the smell of something awful--worse than burning paper and cloth.
It strikes him when something hot shoots up the side of his head and begins to eat away at his hair. With a shriek, he starts patting down his hair, singing his fingers and doing little to put it out. Desperate and afraid, he drops into the snow, effectively extinguishing himself.
Elwin's chest heaves. He lays on his back and gently cradles the side of his head, watching the fire before him burn out of the corner of his eye. Deciding that he's had enough for tonight, he shakily gets to his feet, smothers the fire, and wanders back to the lodge, still clutching his head. He's not seriously hurt, though the skin on his hands has turned white and throbs with each step. He's more worried about his new, lopsided 'do more than anything else.
Elwin is so, so bitter.
He's always been the type to hold grudges, even over the smallest matters. He held grudges when his mother forced him to eat his vegetables. He held a grudge when she died. He held a grudge when his father gave him up and he held a grudge when Grandpa tended to the peeling burns on the backs of his hands. Forgiveness is not a word in his vocabulary. Elwin will never forget how hard Grandpa hits, and he will never forget the glee he felt watching the walls crumble around him.
Even after such a massive act of destruction, setting fire to his home, letting it spread to the neighbors' yards, watching them run from their homes naked and wailing, the high only lasted so long. By the time he'd set his jaw and bolted up the mountain, landing at Flintlock's doorstep, he started to feel that same familiar itch.
He can only suppress the urge for so long until it becomes unbearable. He feels withdrawals in the same way an addict would, minus all the physical nausea and shakes that come with it.
He's been here for all of two days. He snatches papers and books from people's rooms, laughing at them for leaving their doors unlocked as he makes off with their goods. He steals things off the wall, and rips the locket off his chest, and throws that into the pile as well. Such a massive wave of relief washes over him when he strikes a match and drops it in the pile. He sinks to his knees in the melting snow and watches with wide eyes as the pile begins to burn, a stupid, dopey smile curling across his face. Much better.
He doesn't realize how close he gets until the heat of the fire becomes too unbearable against his skin. Elwin draws back suddenly with a gasp, touching his cold hands to his cheek. There's a moment where everything seems fine and he lets his body slump, eyes trained on the flames dancing before him, before the smell of something awful--worse than burning paper and cloth.
It strikes him when something hot shoots up the side of his head and begins to eat away at his hair. With a shriek, he starts patting down his hair, singing his fingers and doing little to put it out. Desperate and afraid, he drops into the snow, effectively extinguishing himself.
Elwin's chest heaves. He lays on his back and gently cradles the side of his head, watching the fire before him burn out of the corner of his eye. Deciding that he's had enough for tonight, he shakily gets to his feet, smothers the fire, and wanders back to the lodge, still clutching his head. He's not seriously hurt, though the skin on his hands has turned white and throbs with each step. He's more worried about his new, lopsided 'do more than anything else.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug