—staggering to the path. at least that way someone might find his (* corpse *) before the beasts do. he collapses into the dirt—the air knocked from his lungs upon impact. all he wants to do is sleep. . . *]
[* a hand clutched at his side, met with warm liquid seeping from the wound—he knew eyes were watching him, though he had not the energy to care. *]
urgh, [* a soft moan of pain as he dragged himself through the underbrush, the lizalfols behind him dissipating into a —
—plume of gloomy smoke. vision blurred by pain, he stumbles—leaning his weight upon the trunk of a tree—his body feels heavy, far too heavy. he knows what’s coming next, he can taste salt on his lips, his own life force dripping down his chin. *]
f u c k , [* he mumbles—
we are the stories we tell ourselves. the brave hero, the tortured soul, the altruist, the pragmatist. they will tell you who they see, but you and you alone know who you are.
He has never looked sadder a day in his life. Its genuinely like you’ve just kicked a puppy, and took the sound that it makes, and made it into Vasa. He’s so sad, how could you do that to him??