| Red Riding Hood. [prp] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 26 2013, 04:42 PM (41 Views) | |
| Sulla | Jul 26 2013, 04:42 PM Post #1 |
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Newborn
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It only occurs to him now and then that his life is at a complete dead end. Or more, at what a normal man would claim to be one. There is no college awaiting his arrival, no job around the corner. He is sitting with a deadbeat man as filthy as the town Sodom. There is no course laid down at his feet, no running river for him to follow. It only crosses his mind, bothers him like an annoying fly does the hound dog on the porch every odd occasion. But alone in this small cabin it does come to his attention. He had been a star. Sulla had been the leader of what he did. He could advance no further simply roll around and rot on his own wealth. The boy bad been finically stable and what the exact people who were calling him now a deadbeat would call him a man at the top of his class. How can it be expected of him to rise from the ashes like a phoenix? It is a secret kept between tight lips that he had walked out that day a different man, a changed man perfect to roll into the start of a cult that spells out clearly: apocalypse. It bothers him slightly he cannot do what he dreams up. It thrums in the back of his mind as said, only to come out now and then. Here in the confines of this cabin, where the women wander close by and family is valued like he believes it should, it awakes the rotten feeling. He dreams of medical school though he is as blind as bat. He dreams of going somewhere other than here but finds himself at piece with going nowhere. When the fates hold their hands tight it reminds him why (people would say foolishly) he stands by Giles’ side. There is a devotion to family that has rotted away in the years, a passion that has long been forgotten by others. The teenager is happy where he is at, somehow in the mess of things. People look at the bruises, look at Giles’ and quickly assume. Somewhere in that long string of what others want to title grief when truly isn’t; he finds himself like a loyal dog to his side. He is his adviser, his strong-witted… He dares not to say son, but something of the sort. Giles needs him but from a sick twist of fate the need is mutual. People do not understand because they have lost sight of their own visions. People cannot fathom, cannot not relate because they do not understand. Sulla does not need religion to know where sacrifices must be made for the bigger picture. Family comes first. Always. He has been lied to before and cheated by the renegade of a witch but he knows it is simply is his personality. Tonight he was promised to be picked up by six but the hour is dawning nine. Hope has long been lost because the man has been known for flaking. There are a few faces he deems acceptable and enjoys their presence, somewhat but they are not enough. Air conditioning sounds perfect right about now and he just wants to be alone. He can only handle people for so long, be in an unfamiliar place for a few minutes before he crumbles. He is even wary for his own hide in this house, but not as much as he used to be. Nimble fingers sit neatly in his lap. His back is as straight as his face while his stare is blank. His mind slowly draws back from a game of almost philosophy. Sulla is feeling restless. He does not want to be here but he does not want to show his distaste. A wander outside seems a bit alluring. Fresh air, be it stale or humid would be more than sitting around waiting for sleep to come or the sun to rise. He arises quickly and before he knows it he is slowly closing the door with a silent, precise thud. He turns around, head high and pose as usual, precise. A walk in the woods does not sound half bad, and without a pause he takes a walk. It is quiet and without delay or problem. The woods offer a place to clear his mind and to hopefully wear off whatever energy keeps him from peace. Nature is a source of wonder and he finds himself glancing at what it has to offer. He is not familiar at all with this neck of the woods but nevertheless he wonders if anything it has growing would be of help. The only plants within a mile radius he would trust would be from Sabra’s garden, something he wished not to touch after he had already fixed it. Left in an easy almost trance like state, the rush of air runs falls from his lips and nose. It is cooler in the trees and for once he finds himself alone to his own petty thoughts. There is no sisters to watch him, no Giles to scowl him. For once he is alone. Of course it does not take long for worry to rush its way into his head. There had been a strange man a week past to come in, throwing a fit or two with a bullet to his side. He was fierce redhead, one you would not mess with on the street and more than likely of the supernatural sort. The bullet that had grazed his knowing fingers had been silver, and silver burns wolves as much as it attracts the greedy. Werewolves are a strange sort he does not know much about them; ignorance is as scary to him as the big bad monster is to a child. But the fierce, cursing ginger had been hurt. He had healed him until he was denied. No is a word he can respect because he would not last long in this household without it and common courtesy is a necessity. A week had since passed and he is wondering just how well he had been fairing, more than likely not well. His thoughts are not allowed to turn so much into worry when calculated ears catch vulgar cursing about something hurting. As foreign as the feeling is it, is somehow common to him. He drifts towards the cursing like the light at the end of the tunnel. ”What are you doing out here?’ He asks as he begins to approach. It is a dumb question but calculated just to be so; he is escaping like the magician is but the question is more of warning he is approaching making it border on almost rhetorical. Not that it is easy to tell, the words swift without as tremor of emotion. It takes a good catch to keep why do you think it hurts from rolling off his tongue. He stands straight, refusing to lean against a tree as he looks at the wounded solider. It had been itching at his mind, a bug he could not beat. There had yet to be a case he had never finished healing and for some reason the bastard wanted it left. He takes it as the man is simply at unease with magic, just like every person in the cabin. He has Giles to thank for that. If the man does not rise from his seat against the tree, the teenager crouches. Nevertheless of his position his eyes stare blankly towards his general direction, refusing to tremble. He refrains from asking just how bad it is, knowing it had to have gotten worse, just as he expected, just as he had known it would. It annoys him the man will not let him finish, recklessly endangering himself for what? But he supposes he is more annoyed he cannot finish his job than he is worried for the fool- but that may or may not be a lie. Somewhere beneath the stone faced skin he will admit he feels bad for the older gentle- barbarian. ”May I finish what I started?’ He inquires, lips not even twitching nor face faltering from its constant expression. ”Before it gets any worse?’ He pauses. ”Or may I at least look at it?” He pauses again, face blank as whatever runs through his head remains an enigma. A hand outstretches for a shake. ”I never did quite catch your name,” he begins with ease but it sounds rehearsed. ”Sulla.” |
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2:49 AM Jul 11