Alter Ego
that evil mod from hell
- 5,750
- Posts
- 19
- Years
- Age 37
- Touhou land, grazing danmaku all the way
- Seen Aug 8, 2010
Lance Penderson was speechless. For anyone who knew the first thing about the crotchety old veteran, this would have been enough of a sign to deduce that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Lance Won't-freakin'-shut-up Penderson had always been the one to get the last word. Even on the battlefield where one of his lungs was impaled by a spear had he managed to slur out a stream of profanities about his enemy's mother, even after consuming enough alcohol to stun a donkey, long beyond the point where his brain had kept up, he had managed to mumble something incomprehensible, and no-one had yet to manage the feat of having him shut up about his war wounds - especially the left wing which ached like you wouldn't believe - but now...
The old man rubbed his eyes in disbelief, staring at his grimy fingers and trying to will them into looking like ten in a desperate attempt to dismiss the bizarre sight in front of him as another figment of his alcohol-addled mind. Much to his dismay, the fingers remained disappointingly in focus and a quick search through the pockets of his dirty bomber jacket confirmed that his spare comfort bottle remained firmly corked. The being in front of him - this wisp-like girl with her teal hair, wide, innocent puppy dog eyes and the belt of notebooks wound a full two times around her waist which seemed almost as thin as the length of rope holding the journals together - was indeed as real as everything else in the world. Yet she had done what was supposed to have been impossible: she had listened. Not only that, she had paid attention. For what must surely have been several hours, this peculiar apparition had just sat there and listened with an expression of intense concentration spread across her child-like face, everything from his war-time memories to his personal grudge list and regular moans she had listened to, and as if this wasn't enough she had asked for clarifications, specifics on the countless ailments - both imaginary and real - he had moaned about and to top it all off she had even offered him an ointment of her own design, which - she promised - should clean the wound right up, all the while scribbling down notes without even glancing at the words she put on paper. Normally, Lance would just have reached for his bottle and drunk himself out of the situation, but...well, this was a child, wasn't it? He may have been a foul-mouthed and miserable wretch, but somewhere at the back of the dark and unexplored reaches of his mind - albeit probably pickled in watered-down counterfeit vodka like the rest of his mind - his pride was still alive; he would not suffer the indignity of being outlasted by someone one fourth his age, especially someone with as flimsy a name as Faewyn.
This called for strategy, and when the stranger made a bad turn with the pencil - immediately spawning a small bruise on one of her knuckles - the old man lunged at the opportunity with the fervor of a drowning man spotting that last straw of grass which might just - by some unfathomable stretch of faith - support his weight.
"Gel, 'ave ya' 'ad dat fo' long?!" he exclaimed, pointing dramatically at the tiny bruise.
"Hmm?" Faweyn blinked, examining the abrasion with polite curiosity, "No, I just got it."
"No, no, not dat!" the old man croaked in what he himself considered pretty damn good fake astonishment, grasping the finger with his grimy hands, "I mean, d'ya get does a lot?"
"All the time." the girl replied airily, "It's just a little bruise."
"No!" Lance barked, "No, it ain't gel! Dat's wut a lot of 'em think, but it ain't! Dat dere's the first symptom of antioxymoronisilicosis! If ya' don't get dat treated right away it'll melt away all yer neurons fast as ya blink!"
"Really?" Faewyn gasped, here eyes widening in awe. Inwardly, the veteran sighed in relief. The hook was in place, now he'd just have to reel it in.
"I wouldn't tell ya no bull, gel!" he replied, vigorously rising up on his feet - and feeling the slight backlash of pain from the left one of his ragged, gray-feathered wings for doing so - and grasping one of the girl's arms to tow her along, "Don't talk, it'll only make it spread faster. Then you'll get all 'ese 'orrible spasms an'-"
He was cut off short as the sky suddenly flashed yellow, the thin girl flinching and nearly tumbling over. This was just too much for the old man. That ailment he had talked about, it was just made up, right? It wasn't like the bizarre concoctions of his mind were coming to life now, RIGHT?! No, of course it wasn't; all of it was obviously caused by this odd stranger, as soon as he put some well-needed distance between himself and her everything would go back to being normal again.
"See?!" he cried, "It's startin' already, gel! Don't move a muscle, I'll take ya' somewhere where 'ey can 'elp!"
With that, Lance promptly picked the girl up in a fireman lift, amazed by just how light she felt, and sprinted across the fields towards a house he knew in the distance. Yes, the Florinens had a thing for playing good Samaritans, didn't they? No doubt they'd take in the strange girl-child without question. At least...he hoped so. After all, this could really be serious, and he certainly didn't want a dead kid on his conscience at this point of his life.
The guilt welled up more and more in the old man as he came closer and closer to the building, his heartbeat quickening in panic. What if he didn't make it? What if the girl really died? What if everyone would think it was his fault? So flustered was he with these thoughts that he barged in without knocking, immediately charging through the front door and into the guest rooms.
"Quick!" he roared as loudly as his worn lungs would permit, "This gel' went all weak and faint like an' I didn't do anythin' to her but she just went like this when the sky flashed an' I thought I'd better bring 'er 'ere 'cause ye know more about 'ese thins' 'an I do an'-" he paused, his eyes finally catching up with his mind as he saw all the housefolk gathered in the room, just before his eyes shifted to Rosaline and Reid.
"Wat?" he rasped, despair etched in his features, "Wat' the 'ell is goin' on 'ere?". Faewyn, meanwhile, was observing the whole situation in her usual placid manner, offering everyone a friendly smile, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her head was lolling upside-down over the old man's shoulder, pencil and notebook still grasped in her hands. She was practically dying to say something, but in her current condition that wouldn't be good, would it? The spasm had really only hurt for a moment, but what if it was recursive? Her forehead did feel a bit sore, but without a mirror she couldn't check. Ohh...how she wished that she could write this all down right now, but that wouldn't do either. Hopefully the nice woman hanging from the ceiling would heal her quickly; Faewyn had a feeling that whatever she had just felt would be very important for "Faewyn's Complete Guide to Everything" and she didn't want to forget a bit.
The old man rubbed his eyes in disbelief, staring at his grimy fingers and trying to will them into looking like ten in a desperate attempt to dismiss the bizarre sight in front of him as another figment of his alcohol-addled mind. Much to his dismay, the fingers remained disappointingly in focus and a quick search through the pockets of his dirty bomber jacket confirmed that his spare comfort bottle remained firmly corked. The being in front of him - this wisp-like girl with her teal hair, wide, innocent puppy dog eyes and the belt of notebooks wound a full two times around her waist which seemed almost as thin as the length of rope holding the journals together - was indeed as real as everything else in the world. Yet she had done what was supposed to have been impossible: she had listened. Not only that, she had paid attention. For what must surely have been several hours, this peculiar apparition had just sat there and listened with an expression of intense concentration spread across her child-like face, everything from his war-time memories to his personal grudge list and regular moans she had listened to, and as if this wasn't enough she had asked for clarifications, specifics on the countless ailments - both imaginary and real - he had moaned about and to top it all off she had even offered him an ointment of her own design, which - she promised - should clean the wound right up, all the while scribbling down notes without even glancing at the words she put on paper. Normally, Lance would just have reached for his bottle and drunk himself out of the situation, but...well, this was a child, wasn't it? He may have been a foul-mouthed and miserable wretch, but somewhere at the back of the dark and unexplored reaches of his mind - albeit probably pickled in watered-down counterfeit vodka like the rest of his mind - his pride was still alive; he would not suffer the indignity of being outlasted by someone one fourth his age, especially someone with as flimsy a name as Faewyn.
This called for strategy, and when the stranger made a bad turn with the pencil - immediately spawning a small bruise on one of her knuckles - the old man lunged at the opportunity with the fervor of a drowning man spotting that last straw of grass which might just - by some unfathomable stretch of faith - support his weight.
"Gel, 'ave ya' 'ad dat fo' long?!" he exclaimed, pointing dramatically at the tiny bruise.
"Hmm?" Faweyn blinked, examining the abrasion with polite curiosity, "No, I just got it."
"No, no, not dat!" the old man croaked in what he himself considered pretty damn good fake astonishment, grasping the finger with his grimy hands, "I mean, d'ya get does a lot?"
"All the time." the girl replied airily, "It's just a little bruise."
"No!" Lance barked, "No, it ain't gel! Dat's wut a lot of 'em think, but it ain't! Dat dere's the first symptom of antioxymoronisilicosis! If ya' don't get dat treated right away it'll melt away all yer neurons fast as ya blink!"
"Really?" Faewyn gasped, here eyes widening in awe. Inwardly, the veteran sighed in relief. The hook was in place, now he'd just have to reel it in.
"I wouldn't tell ya no bull, gel!" he replied, vigorously rising up on his feet - and feeling the slight backlash of pain from the left one of his ragged, gray-feathered wings for doing so - and grasping one of the girl's arms to tow her along, "Don't talk, it'll only make it spread faster. Then you'll get all 'ese 'orrible spasms an'-"
He was cut off short as the sky suddenly flashed yellow, the thin girl flinching and nearly tumbling over. This was just too much for the old man. That ailment he had talked about, it was just made up, right? It wasn't like the bizarre concoctions of his mind were coming to life now, RIGHT?! No, of course it wasn't; all of it was obviously caused by this odd stranger, as soon as he put some well-needed distance between himself and her everything would go back to being normal again.
"See?!" he cried, "It's startin' already, gel! Don't move a muscle, I'll take ya' somewhere where 'ey can 'elp!"
With that, Lance promptly picked the girl up in a fireman lift, amazed by just how light she felt, and sprinted across the fields towards a house he knew in the distance. Yes, the Florinens had a thing for playing good Samaritans, didn't they? No doubt they'd take in the strange girl-child without question. At least...he hoped so. After all, this could really be serious, and he certainly didn't want a dead kid on his conscience at this point of his life.
The guilt welled up more and more in the old man as he came closer and closer to the building, his heartbeat quickening in panic. What if he didn't make it? What if the girl really died? What if everyone would think it was his fault? So flustered was he with these thoughts that he barged in without knocking, immediately charging through the front door and into the guest rooms.
"Quick!" he roared as loudly as his worn lungs would permit, "This gel' went all weak and faint like an' I didn't do anythin' to her but she just went like this when the sky flashed an' I thought I'd better bring 'er 'ere 'cause ye know more about 'ese thins' 'an I do an'-" he paused, his eyes finally catching up with his mind as he saw all the housefolk gathered in the room, just before his eyes shifted to Rosaline and Reid.
"Wat?" he rasped, despair etched in his features, "Wat' the 'ell is goin' on 'ere?". Faewyn, meanwhile, was observing the whole situation in her usual placid manner, offering everyone a friendly smile, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her head was lolling upside-down over the old man's shoulder, pencil and notebook still grasped in her hands. She was practically dying to say something, but in her current condition that wouldn't be good, would it? The spasm had really only hurt for a moment, but what if it was recursive? Her forehead did feel a bit sore, but without a mirror she couldn't check. Ohh...how she wished that she could write this all down right now, but that wouldn't do either. Hopefully the nice woman hanging from the ceiling would heal her quickly; Faewyn had a feeling that whatever she had just felt would be very important for "Faewyn's Complete Guide to Everything" and she didn't want to forget a bit.
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