06-04-2017, 04:01 PM
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being alone certainly was different than being in a group. for one, he didn't have to deal leadership. being the oldest in the group, he was dubbed the leader of the rag tag team of young adults and teenagers. he wasn't sure as to why that seemed to be the right thing to do, especially since he had no such skill of being a leader, much less able to have the patience to handle both small and large problems. he was usually stoic in front of the people he led, which was a strategic idea in his part since showing any emotion would cause for the group to question him daily. the last thing he needed was more annoying people questioning what the hell was going on inside that head of his. there were perks, of course, of leading, but they were outnumbered by the millions of cons that came along with it.
he was the leader of their unnamed and tiny group for a few months until... stuff happened. lives were lost, their limited resources were ransacked, and he was covered in blood. almost nobody in his group had survived the terrible event he could have stopped if he tried harder, and those that did survive ran off in the middle of night, leaving him alone in the middle of a bloodbath to bask in very emotional and traumatic state. yet he knew that he would have to leave before anything else bad happened; and that's what he did. with a small pack filled with 3 half-empty water bottles, a few granola bars, and a polaroid camera along with multiple memory-filled pictures,
he set out to start over again.
hector had heard of the badlands. most were rumors or stories from those that were apart of much more larger groups, such at st. peters. they were mostly bad things that the group did, mostly physical and violent stuff. never did he think that he would have to interact with the group. he didn't want any trouble in his life, and he knew that the badlands would make that happen. yet after the event that left him alone and his own survival objects running low, he knew he'd have to do something about it. any other groups were too far away already, and he knew someone saying how close they were to the badlands' territory. with only one water bottle left and two granola bars, he was already heading to the badlands.
after a few more hours of walking, the latino male stood at what he assumed to be the start of the territory. his bloodied hands grasped the pack and a rusty combat knife as he looked around. he surely wasn't a true sight for sore eyes, even if his facial and bodily structure said otherwise. his white muscle tee was splattered with blood and his once nice jeans were torn around the knees and equally covered in blood. his red and black plaid shirt was wrapped around his torso, covered in dust and a few specks of mud. his cheeks and jaw was patterned with tiny blood spots as well as a faint and small scar running down the side of his face. if he were been lucky enough to pass a river, maybe he wouldn't look as damaged as he was.
"mmm, not bad," he spoke out softly, accented voice ringing out in the quiet area. a tanned hand rested on his clothed hip as he sighed, wondering if he should call out or risk being shot. either one would lead to death, probably, which if he was being honest, would be nice.
he was the leader of their unnamed and tiny group for a few months until... stuff happened. lives were lost, their limited resources were ransacked, and he was covered in blood. almost nobody in his group had survived the terrible event he could have stopped if he tried harder, and those that did survive ran off in the middle of night, leaving him alone in the middle of a bloodbath to bask in very emotional and traumatic state. yet he knew that he would have to leave before anything else bad happened; and that's what he did. with a small pack filled with 3 half-empty water bottles, a few granola bars, and a polaroid camera along with multiple memory-filled pictures,
he set out to start over again.
hector had heard of the badlands. most were rumors or stories from those that were apart of much more larger groups, such at st. peters. they were mostly bad things that the group did, mostly physical and violent stuff. never did he think that he would have to interact with the group. he didn't want any trouble in his life, and he knew that the badlands would make that happen. yet after the event that left him alone and his own survival objects running low, he knew he'd have to do something about it. any other groups were too far away already, and he knew someone saying how close they were to the badlands' territory. with only one water bottle left and two granola bars, he was already heading to the badlands.
after a few more hours of walking, the latino male stood at what he assumed to be the start of the territory. his bloodied hands grasped the pack and a rusty combat knife as he looked around. he surely wasn't a true sight for sore eyes, even if his facial and bodily structure said otherwise. his white muscle tee was splattered with blood and his once nice jeans were torn around the knees and equally covered in blood. his red and black plaid shirt was wrapped around his torso, covered in dust and a few specks of mud. his cheeks and jaw was patterned with tiny blood spots as well as a faint and small scar running down the side of his face. if he were been lucky enough to pass a river, maybe he wouldn't look as damaged as he was.
"mmm, not bad," he spoke out softly, accented voice ringing out in the quiet area. a tanned hand rested on his clothed hip as he sighed, wondering if he should call out or risk being shot. either one would lead to death, probably, which if he was being honest, would be nice.
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･ﾟ✧ SIPPIN' TROPICANA IN A COCONUT CABANA, FLOATING ON FLAMINGOS, SMOKIN' ALL THE MANGOES. HOTTER THAN MOJAVA, SWEETER THAN AGAVE, WE JUST TRYNA' STAY COOL, HOVERBOARDING IN A CALAMANSI WAVEPOOL â€â€Ââ€â€Ââ€â€Ââ€â€Ââ€â€Â-
[color=red]as part of bearbones, you have been vored