Author Topic: The Border it might be too sharp && joiner-ish (Read 53 times)

manwë · « **on:** October 06, 2018, 01:06:36 PM »

/i haven't written in a while so if anything's clunky my bad

Flintlock is far behind him. It has been for a while, since that horrible man took Peter and Ben. He had begged for their lives and was kicked in the head for it as J beat them both. Manwë can't remember what followed, only that he woke up as someone dragged him by shackled feet away from the prison until he lost time again. He's losing more of it now, staggering after the man who holds the chain to his collar, who yanks it mercilessly when Manwë does not keep close enough at his heels. He has stopped searching for a comforting Win or Peter shape; he's going to die like this, he thinks. Manwë can feel the shape of his ribs against his skin when he breathes and his cheeks are paper thin, and he wonders if the wind could carry him far, far away from here.

He thinks he may be delusional.

A sharp tug and he finally falls. His hands brace on the sand, knuckles small hills protruding from his fingers, all swimming in twirling gray splotches. Manwë blinks rapidly but the shapes don't leave, and there's a dull burst of pain when a foot connects with his side. He knows what it means, so he fights to stand up but needs several attempts to do so, each failure rewarded with a kick. Then they are walking again. There are houses that dot his vision, though fuzzy, and he licks cracked lips.

Abruptly, the man stops. Manwë nearly trips following suit, and wonders why they are here. A new place to stay?

Spoiler: UNDER COVER, HIDE AWAY && INFO (10/06) • show

TYDEUS · « **Reply #1 on:** October 06, 2018, 03:43:39 PM »

/ SUNDER AND MANWË!

He knew what it was like to wake up shackled. But, more than that, he knew what it was like to finally have that weight off of his throat. From the day his collar had been buckled into place, he had dreamed of the freedom that would come to him when it was removed. The longer it sat there as a reminder of his own helplessness, burning and chafing his skin, the more... normal it became. The less strange, the less unfamiliar. This was the way that the world was, and he could do nothing to change it. So instead, he accepted it. Settled in because when he behaved, he ate and slept well. The longer he behaved, the more Bones trusted him. At first he told himself that it was because he had every intention of killing him when he could. It was expected in the section of the world that they called their own. Kill or be killed. He had lived his life with whispers of Bonesaw's previous toys ringing in his ears. With time, though, it wasn't fear that kept him complacent. It was peace — was that awful? Was he disgusting for finding comfort in his place at his owner's side? It was constant, and with time, he stopped being a monster and just became Bones.

But still, he'd got his original wish. The collar had been cut off and he'd been tossed out, stunned and breathless, trying to process what had happened. With time, he had learned how to deal with the feelings that burrowed underneath his skin, all of those thoughts. (Why wasn't I good enough to keep? Did I do something wrong? Please tell me it's a joke.) They burned to ash when he got angry, and in its place grew other things. (I don't need you. I can handle myself. nobody will do that to me again.) Some part of him still aches, but he holds control of The Badlands with desperation, because look. This is what a former slave can do. He patrols even when he knows he doesn't need to. Their numbers are slowly growing, and he's certain that they can take care of themselves. They know the rules. If anyone shows up, they're to be brought to him. So far, though, he's found that to be a somewhat unnecessary step so far. Like today, when his eyes fall on two figures off in the distance. He hates leaving the buildings' cover, too exposed out in the open but with a sour expression, he approaches them anyway.

Every step has his body tensing, as it becomes more and more clear what he's seeing. The slight figure of the Overboss is strung tight when he finally stops walking, scarred arms crossed over his chest and pale brown eyes holding a fiery anger. He didn't know how to deal with others being treated in ways that he's familiar with. "Hey, you." He whistles to draw their attention to where he stands a few paces away, unwilling to step closer. "What do you want with The Badlands?" Your kind isn't welcome here.

𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄 · « **Reply #2 on:** October 11, 2018, 10:26:36 AM »

ooc welcome !! and don't worry ur writing's perfect :^)

tw for vague mentions of past emotional & physical abuse and murder in the first paragraph

◜♰◞ She can’t say that she’s familiar with the innate horrors of being shackled or chained, pieces of old, rusted metal digging into pale skin, searing, while being dragged around like some kind of worthless, slobbering animal — fearful and unwilling. It’s a cruel, hopeless fate she’s lucky enough to never have endured, though that doesn’t exactly mean she wasn’t immensely intimate with the telltale patterns and signs that accompanied both physical and emotional abuse. Those dark, twisted traumas were etched deeply into her hardened core, haunting her thoughts and dreams till this very day, leaving her empty and hollow. She had gotten her revenge of course — set the greedy bastard aflame, watching him dissolve into ash and smoke amidst the tortured screams. Oh, how she had relished in the savory sound — the sound of burning, crackling skin and unanswered, desperate pleas. Some weren’t so lucky, like this kid.

Ruby red lips curl into a menacing snarl as soon as she nears, oddly sharpened canines, encrusted in white jewels gleaming boldly against the harsh sunlight. That boy — malnourished and bound, almost skeletal in appearance. He was a slave, she was sure of it. Every inch of her body tenses, the harsh reality of it all slamming into her chest like a high speed bullet. It’s then that she feels it — that blinding, red hot anger that coils and burns deep within her belly, lighting a dangerous fire behind cool, mismatched eyes. ❝ Traffickers aren’t fucking welcome here. ❞ Her tone is short and threatening, the venom that drips from her words unmistakable as petite fingers tighten against her rusted, nail-covered bat. If it came down to it, she’d bash this man’s brains out and decorate their borders in that beautiful, crimson red. In fact, she was itching to right about now.

bearbones ☾

Author Topic: The Border it might be too sharp && joiner-ish (Read 53 times)

manwë

it might be too sharp && joiner-ish

TYDEUS

Re: it might be too sharp && joiner-ish

𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄

Re: it might be too sharp && joiner-ish