02-21-2020, 02:36 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: calibri; font-size: 9.2pt; line-height: 1.4;"]He has a backpack full of food and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It smells faintly of his dad when he tucks it up under his nose against a strangely biting wind. Winter is ending, or it's supposed to be. By his count it's late February now. Six months since his dad finally passed, and a year since they realized something was wrong. Beck tried to do right by him, to take care of him in the end, but he's gone now. All he has to take care of now is himself. He sniffs and buries his face into the scratchy wool fabric, both for the sting of his eyes and against his nose.
"Ugh," he mutters, voice thick and snotty. Who the fuck lived up here voluntarily? "God." He wipes his nose for what feels like the hundredth time in an hour. It's tempting to grab out some food from his pack, or the stash of batteries he'd been paid with to head this way in the first place. The cold's good for your health, kid, keeps playing in his head. The rough, grating threat as frosty as the place itself. He shouldn't've come here. Should've just faced his problems and — took whatever came to him. Instead, he scrubs his eyes against the snow and treks higher. What would he even be looking for? Do they live in fucking huts? Yurts? A cabin, a house, igloos. Igloos wouldn't hold up in the spring here, at least he doesn't think so. (He's praying it warms up.)
Beck gives up on it all with a sigh, pulling his hood up tighter around his ears and trekking on with his eyes down. He doesn't notice people on the horizon, or the building that to climbs over the hill.
"Ugh," he mutters, voice thick and snotty. Who the fuck lived up here voluntarily? "God." He wipes his nose for what feels like the hundredth time in an hour. It's tempting to grab out some food from his pack, or the stash of batteries he'd been paid with to head this way in the first place. The cold's good for your health, kid, keeps playing in his head. The rough, grating threat as frosty as the place itself. He shouldn't've come here. Should've just faced his problems and — took whatever came to him. Instead, he scrubs his eyes against the snow and treks higher. What would he even be looking for? Do they live in fucking huts? Yurts? A cabin, a house, igloos. Igloos wouldn't hold up in the spring here, at least he doesn't think so. (He's praying it warms up.)
Beck gives up on it all with a sigh, pulling his hood up tighter around his ears and trekking on with his eyes down. He doesn't notice people on the horizon, or the building that to climbs over the hill.
[div style="text-align: center; font-family: calibri; font-size: 9.2pt; line-height: 1.4;"][sup]BECKETT "BECK" CONNORS. | ❝ DULL IT DOWN LIKE SLEEPING WITHOUT DREAMING ❞