#speed-check

Not an intro, but an outro. I feel like I can excessively cheat at this based on our anime viewing and discussions but whatever

[Send my muse a word and they’ll tell you something about their past related to that word]

   “Think we’ve all got different... Understandings, ‘bout what it means t’ be ‘lost’.” Mused I’chi, his blind gaze appearing somehow focused. On what exactly was anyone’s guess, as it was cast off into a too distant and too dark sky, “I was lost for most a’ my life. Driftin’ aimlessly cross the sea searchin’ for somethin’ that’d make all the longin’ make sense. Wasn’t ‘ntil I surrendered both port and starboard beneath my feet, cast adrift in the waves, that I found what I was lookin’ for. Or, rather, that what I was lookin’ for found me.”

   A blanket of soft grey cloaks the sky, illuminated by a proud sun that persists in vain to try and pierce the gloomy veil. Winds sweep along the surface of a rich sea, waves cradling a man whose blind eyes are closed to a world he cannot appease. 

   “What do you think of when you think a’ someone who’s lost?”

   Black tresses join the tides in their ebb and flow, tethered to the scalp of the slumbering Miqo’te. He does not dream, for he has never tasted a dream’s sweet kiss. He wants only peace, but he does not know the rhythm of peace’s song. The wind blows stronger to fill his lungs, as it seems he has forgotten the touch of life’s grace.

   “Think of a kid separated from their parents?”

   Seagulls cry, mourning the breathless one on their frequented shore. A gold chain rests on a still chest, a treasure trapped around a hollow throat. A noose, befitting one left for dead in the deep blue abyss. The wind stirs again, blowing into the slack ears of the discarded Miqo’te.

   “Think of someone wanderin’ the streets of a big city for the first time?”

   A beak pulls on what gifts were brought to it by this morning’s tides. The rattling of a chain combats the cries of anarchy, chiming in a chorus of other squawks and hollows. Gold. A prize whose value is lost on its thief. Feathers ruffle in anger as frustration sets in, with wings unfolding to welcome a now raging wind. But the wind is not there to aid the greedy.

   “Me, I think ‘bout those who don’t got anything to call their own.”

   Distraught, the rogue releases the corpse’s testament, pecking at what glitters in its frustration. The zephyr turns, filling damp lungs. The broad chest of the disgraced one rises, startling the fickle bird.

   “They’ll find it one day. The thing that’s missin’. May just have t’a lose everything else, first.”

   A rich brine escapes from soggy lungs, the richly adorned sailor turning himself over to retch himself free of the sea’s darkest embrace. Yet the sands of the beach cling to him to remind him that he is not alone, rubbing raw his bare spine. He lifts his chin up, opening his blind feline eyes until they cast up towards a now clear sky. Not that he would know. His necklace rattled until he clutched it in his palm, his thumb tracing over a familiar sigil. The crest of Llymlaen. Then he sighed, feeling Her breath escape him. 

I’chi’s ink marred forehead creased with a show of slight discomfort, yet his lips curled into a smile, “... Something I like about myself?” He repeated the question, pondering how he could possibly answer that kind of question without sounding like an ass. 

Then it occurred to him. 

“I’ve got a great ass.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder, his tail giving a slight wiggle in a further indication of where other’s eyes may be allowed to wander and confirm. A smug grin and a brief snicker cut through the Miqo’te’s bullshit, and he spoke under his breath in further explanation, “Least, so I’m told. Don’t really know what that means exactly. Must be a seeing-people thing...” 

( Perfect, time for a sad one ) Writer’s Choice: #3 - A memory of their mother (Which coincidentally is also #19 - A memory of someone they don’t see anymore and #20 - A memory of someone who is deceased.)

  “I’m sorry.” Her words were spoken with a tremble in her voice and grief in her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks and into her boy’s scrapped and dirtied palms. She pressed a crimson-stained rag against his tattered skin, the fabric damp from the steady rainfall that had persisted for days now. He couldn’t see her remorse, blind as he was, but he heard it very clearly in how she quivered and wept. He felt it in the warmth of her breath against his wilting ear when she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close one last time.

  Voice quivering, her throat strained against the lump that swelled within, “My beautiful boy... Please forgive me.”

  A heavy, grime caked hand clamped down upon his shoulder then, yanking him back and away from the weeping woman, “M-mom?” He called meekly, guided through the dark across a dock, the wood creaking under the weight of many making their way back towards their anchored pride. The flick of a coin caught his ear, his chin turning back to where it fell.

  Panicked hands were quick to collect the coin that scattered across the wood, “You promised twenty! This is ten!” Called out the distraught woman, prompting the young boy to stop and turn.

  The thick of the dark storm overhead howled and groaned, while the large hand upon the young boy’s shoulder tightening its grip until he winced in pain, “M-Mommy!” He cried out, but just as quickly was he silenced with a swift smack to the back of the head.

  “Shut up, cat.” Barked the voice of the looming figure that guided him, baritone and brash. His breath wreaked of enough booze to put hair on the chest of those who smelled it, burning the throat with its stench. The boy recoiled, stifling a sob.

  Slowly, the man turned back to the weeping woman, his chest rumbling as his words bubbled up from his throat, “You’re right. Forgive me, miss.” He croaked, cocking his head to the side towards one of his men. His hand released the young boy with a shove, knocking him to the ground as he brandished a lavishly embossed revolver pistol and tossed it to the other, “Give ‘er what we owe her.”

  The heavy gun smacked against an eager palm, quickly held at the ready, “Sure thing, boss.” They chuckled nasally, the sound of their boots clunking against the wood fair less heavy than that of his boss.

  Panic set in as the man neared, ripping from the woman’s throat a terrified scream for mercy. One quickly silenced, deafened instead by the thunderous sound of six shots being fired point-blank. It was like the rag she held had been stuffed down her throat, as she gurgled on the blood that filled her lungs and drained from her body. She collapsed, the sound of the thud followed by that of a man’s exasperated groaning, “We’re still short four. Whoops!”

  Damp black Miqo’te ears flattened as much as they could against the young boy’s scalp, his blind eyes wide as he stared into the horror he felt inside. The large hand of the man beside him found its place on his shoulder once more and lifted him back up onto his feet, the toxic voice of a glutton echoing through the ringing in his ears, “Ain’t got nothin’ to come back to now, kid. S’what happens when you don’t keep your mouth shut.” He pushed the boy along and onwards they marched further down the docks.