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Feb 16 2013, 03:02 PM

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<b>TAG:</b> jade
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<br><b>OUTFIT:</b> click here

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Time and again boys are raised to be men: impatient they start, fearful at end. But here was a man mourning tomorrow. He drank, but finally drown in his sorrow. He could not brace up his tension. He looked in the wrong place for redemption. Don't look at me with those eyes; i tried to unheave the ties: turn back the time that drew him. But he couldn't be saved: a sadness runs through him, through him.


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I’ll add an image when i make them. Ugh have your sadistic fun





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He had a feather in his pocket. In less words. Angus had a feather.
He’d carried it all the way from Canterbury along the shore cliffs “North till London,” as the old man had put it. But he knew this land now, quite nearly from the back of his hand ( as he had in fact drawn such things there once or twice during his travels, like some forensic artist memorizing the land ) and these days, there was very little left aside from the areas sectioned off by military barbed wire or the sound of dogs out in a distance. The map carried in the bag at his hip knew of every landmine field and patrolled area of the countryside. Especially of that regarding the lower South end of the Island. Just below and a bit West of London. This was unexpressed territory to his maps and inner knowledge... as luckily as he had been never having to have pushed that far into German conquer.
But he had a feather. And that was one more possession than he ever thought well to bring along. Which, of course he had not. It was a token of the sea side- the tail or wing feather of a Kestrel found along the open fields of peppered white flowers something to the kin of Baby's Breath, but less so sweet.
He’d run his thumb over the soft yielding edges for hours. Trudging steadily, lifting his boots to keep sight of his feet in the knee high grasses. Trying to keep count of all his fingers and toes so long as he travelled ( and sometimes even when he had long returned home ) and soon, though he avoided for as long as he could, the tiny, hair fine threads would fray and part from their neat shape from beneath his fidgeting fingers. His stress ball of sorts would have be dropped long before he made it to London.
The sidepack bumping against his hip with each long step became heavy by the time he’d broken free of the country field and felt the rough, packed earth of the main dirt road where towns would appear and eventually build themselves into the heights of London. He’d not rested nor stopped for sips from his canteen since the first tiny town met outside of Canterbury, but his parched lips were ignored in favour of progress. He’d be fed if he made it; sheltered til the next day and maybe even showered if the location was anything he hoped it was... but the Rebels were a poorer company. Conducted of good citizens turned thieves and housewives gone warriors since the new hierarchy had stolen from them all that they had. London was the personification of survival.
But Angus knew it wasn't the weight of his travels turning his pack hot to the thought. The letters were what made his heart burn coals. It wasn't fear... was it? No, he was not afraid except in the sense that this survival instincted him to fear. It was duty, at best; the ambition of knowing that this mattered. His job mattered. Was relied on. That the information he carried could mean the end of a war. at least one day. And by the time he’d made it into the city itself, this had been chanted through his head nearly a thousand times along with the steady brush with the pad of his thumb against that tattered feather. Having been forgotten to be discarded of as he’d said it would be.
The visit was slow coming and quiet. Men passing around a revolver or two while others chuckled and wiped the dirt from their faces and instead gathered it beneath their fingernails. They were a confident bunch. All of them he’d always known so; a reassuring presence, to be able to see this group with your own eyes instead of just in rumor stories. And to know that this, in the abandoned lot of an old furniture company he might have known folks to come to once upon a time, that this was only a hollowed fraction of what England had built ( and what the Americans had chipped in as brothers beside them )
A man would approach- perhaps thirty-six if Angus’s character determining skills had improved any- bumping his chin with one large work-grizzled paw where the boy was a great deal shorter and thinner than he. “Gillan! Aye boy. You didn’t meet trouble, then? You’ve both arms and legs, be thankful for that.” and he’d take the bundle of letters as they were offered to him. Important. Him. Important.
“Quite a few, yeah. Vorner didn’t want to waste travel this time. He apologises its been so long without word; wanted to wait till he had more to send.” and somewhere at the back of his mind, Angus hoped it hadn’t been a dig at his travel time. He wasn't the only Rebel messenger, but he sure as hell was the quickest one. And god almighty, if there was any mercy still left out in his kind arms, he couldn’t lose this one. “Aaaah. Take it easy, yeah? Canterbury isn't exactly right next door, you look exhausted.” and then Angus wouldn't help the lean he had into the arm settled across his shoulders. Eyes heavy but mind still alert. And if he hadn’t been awake before, the explosive bang of metal doors being forced in against their hinges would have made sure of so.


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<div style="text-align: center; padding-bottom: 10px;"><a href="">thanks!</a></div>

Dec 16 2012, 09:00 PM
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