Much in the same boat as the other child, Tywyll had returned to the plateau a little hungry and a little dirty but otherwise without much issue. Then again, it was entirely possible that his family was too busy figuring out where all the adults were that they didn't notice the black blob vanish in to the muck only to resurface near the lake; whether he was in trouble or not didn't phase the young Blackthorn, which was fitting since most of his ilk were known for getting in to messes without using their heads. He'd cleaned up and napped for a while, even eaten the contents of numerous caches, and he was back to his usual self — whatever that could possibly mean.
Today, he was hunting for frogs. There weren't as many of them available as he expected. The concept of seasons did not dawn upon the thick-skulled child. Nobody had taught him about winter, or the fact that it would be too cold for something with cold blood to survive. But he hunted anyways, sloshing through the shallows of the lake or dragging his paws (or, more likely, his entire face) through the mud until he was painted a murky baby-poop-brown from snout to chest. It was during one of this lunges wherein the boy misjudged his entire existence, the concept of momentum, everything the incline of the slop he was prowling on, and went from a quick dredge of the soggy earth to a head first slip-and-slide straight in to his doppleganger's path.
Whether Raleska's was downcast (since she was so busy moping) or not, whether Owen had her full attention or not, the boy came careening down the small hill towards the two of them like a pinball bouncing off its course; Tywyll's own eyes were shut to avoid getting anything in them, so it was the perfect shitstorm.
Today, he was hunting for frogs. There weren't as many of them available as he expected. The concept of seasons did not dawn upon the thick-skulled child. Nobody had taught him about winter, or the fact that it would be too cold for something with cold blood to survive. But he hunted anyways, sloshing through the shallows of the lake or dragging his paws (or, more likely, his entire face) through the mud until he was painted a murky baby-poop-brown from snout to chest. It was during one of this lunges wherein the boy misjudged his entire existence, the concept of momentum, everything the incline of the slop he was prowling on, and went from a quick dredge of the soggy earth to a head first slip-and-slide straight in to his doppleganger's path.
Whether Raleska's was downcast (since she was so busy moping) or not, whether Owen had her full attention or not, the boy came careening down the small hill towards the two of them like a pinball bouncing off its course; Tywyll's own eyes were shut to avoid getting anything in them, so it was the perfect shitstorm.
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Messages In This Thread
it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Raleska - November 03, 2018, 10:25 AM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Owen - November 07, 2018, 05:32 AM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Tye - November 07, 2018, 05:34 AM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Raleska - November 08, 2018, 10:17 PM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Owen - November 09, 2018, 01:08 AM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Tye - November 14, 2018, 02:15 AM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Raleska - November 27, 2018, 08:58 PM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Owen - November 29, 2018, 06:51 AM
RE: it's easier than just waiting around to die - by Tye - December 01, 2018, 11:01 PM