The Twisting Den

addressed: it appears skyfall has moved on but if otherwise please let me know! / thoughts / voices / speech
Gary hated seeing others together. It was his primary pet peeve, his through dislike, his bete noire. That sickening sense of mucky togetherness brought down his emotions and made him question why he'd ever even bothered keeping himself alive if this love was something he had to loathe over constantly. Whenever he foresaw this disgusting bonding, his gaze would intensify as he recounted how little he cared for his race; caring about nothing but lame old relationships. Love. Who even cared at all, though? Many people; that was the answer. Gary hated so many things, he wondered how he's managed to stay alive so long. He judged and stared and lumbered around like the lunatic that he was. "Lunatic" was a relative term, though. He wasn't insane; he was a messenger. The deliverer of emotion, belongings, and misc. He could fit that on a business card, no questions asked. Start a business; it was almost laughable to think this way, being so naturally negative and sarcastic. Sadistic. Why did he even bother? he asked himself again, dodging a few roots and skipping over several plants haphazardly rising from the ground. The crowd was thickening. Bird calls grew louder and his heart raced as he ran. The chorus of four paws continuously hitting the earth, two at a time in unison, made the aura even more eerie; abnormally silent. Gary kept going, though. He felt like he was seeking something or looking for a new lead. Maybe the messenger was getting his steam back.

These were the sounds that had begun to symbolize Gary's life: the chirping of birds, that whistling of the wind, the beating of his own heart. This should have been peaceful to him, if it weren't for his overactive mind. As he ran, he began to stumble, feeling as if roots and underbrush were pulling at his limbs, dragging into the oblivion. Removing him from his unwelcome place in the society. His limbs ached as his mind did, too. It thumped heavily, shaking like there was arctic cold inside his mind. At any moment, he felt like his mind would burst, raining out all of his unhealthy chemical balances and leaking out all of the negativity that had begun to burn naturally inside of him. Sizzling with fury and overflowing with bittersweet evil, Gary had eventually begun to let his body do whatever it wanted. He didn't control his mouth, nor did he care what he said as long as it was disturbing someone. He hated it when others tried to be nice with him; spars, skirmishes, and feuds built him up like bricks built a house or logs built a cabin. He was sturdy with pillars of malice to fall back on. That was probably why he was here... friendless... lifeless... afraid...

Gary tripped, plummeting to the ground in a heavy "umph". He closed his eyes and stayed on the ground for a moment, breathing in slowly. It was pretty cold for early autumn; he expected hints of summer and general heat to still be in the air. The ground was ice, though, seeping through his fur and chilling the thin black layer of his skin. This was the forest, after all. Grunting, he hoisted himself up and stretched. The life of a knave was a tough one, forever sulking out of notice and pretending to blend in. This was a miserable moment of his life, for the one ones came when he was doing what he was known for. In several different pack locations, he'd stolen things and won overall. Many knew his name. But alas, he'd never journeyed anywhere close to this ominous wood and had no idea what to expect within these trees. Perhaps he'd have a better chance of disguising himself, or perhaps he was feared. Or, perhaps he'd just end up tangling himself in a knot of words and scare off more wolves.

Skyfall and Bamboo were just examples.

Tile #26: Drab