False Prophet

Thought Conglomerate

I hate math and I wrote this while suffocating in a hot shower

---

Dr. Viktor Nikola Ivanov

What has my life amounted to? Not much, apparently. I have always dreamt of being a contributor to something, but...all I have ever contributed to were weapons of mass destruction. I am a weapon of mass destruction.

Am I poisonous? If we are technical, yes, I am. There are toxins mixed with the blood flowing through my veins- is it even blood anymore, or just chemicals? Is it even flowing? When I place my hand to my chest, I do not feel a beat. I feel nothing. My blood is stagnant and rotting. And yet I feel absolutely nothing.

You would think decomposing would hurt, but it didn't. I didn't notice. Sixty-four years in frigid water, with my cells turning to nothingness, only to be rebuilt the next day in a perverse manner. Rebuilt, but not the same. Not as God intended. An utter crime against nature, my existence is.

I cannot exactly remember what it was like in the depths of that lake, most likely because half of the time pieces of my brain were seeping out of the cracks in my skull. I did not have the ability to remain lucid most of the time. I was, for a time, fish food. But there were no fishes in that lake. Everything there was dead, including me...if only partially.

Exponential growth. Exponential growth will surpass any linear decay in terms of speed, given enough time. If you draw a negative linear function and a positive exponential function on a graph, eventually, they will intersect. In algebraic terms, this is the "solution". The answer to where both of the functions are satisfied. At some point in time, they are temporarily equal to each other.

There is a negative, linear equation on that graph that represents the rate of decay. The decay of my body. The positive, exponential function is my affliction. The one that stitches my cells back together after they have ceased. At first, it barely did anything. It was slow, unnoticed. It fed on the radioactivity of its surroundings, leeching it out of the water, and eventually becoming so potent that it fed itself. The rate of decay stayed the same, but the rate of its growth only expanded. They intersected briefly, and then the balance was broken.

Even so, my body continues to decay, if only to be replaced quicker and quicker… but eventually, both functions will meet infinity. I wonder if I will meet infinity, an abstract concept. I cannot die because I am already dead. My body is attempting to do as nature intended, but this man-made manifestation of pure willpower is keeping me alive

---

The Devouring (Unfinished)

6:00 PM
I just shot something that was running through the field. It was hidden behind two grazing sheep. That midnight black coat of fur gave it away… It stuck out like a piece of the void in the pasture. I aimed. I fired. I hit.

The body tumbled through the dust and settled by a hickory stump.

6:02 PM
I have to trudge across the entire field to get to the carcass. I have no idea what I’m looking at. It looks back at me with bright red eyes. What are you, strange creature? Fangs, claws, tail- bushy, black fur. Coyotes don’t have black fur.

It looks back at me with bright red eyes. It’s staring at me. It’s dead. Why do you look at me like that? With that crooked jaw hanging wide open, I see a maw lined with too many teeth- I see a forked tongue lolling out and poking the dirt.

It looks back at me with bright red eyes! It blinks? My heart skips a beat and I unsheath my hunting knife. I pick it up by the scruff of the neck. No bigger than a pup. The head falls limply to the side and hangs at an awkward angle.

“You’re dead.”
And yet it looks back at me...with bright red eyes.

6:05 PM
The bullet went clean through the chest cavity. At first, I thought there was no blood, but the puddle of inky black liquid pooling on the ground told me otherwise. It is so dark I can hardly tell it apart from the body.

There's blood on my hands now. It reminds me of crude oil, and yet...I can't stop salivating. Why- why am I so hungry? My grip on the knife loosens. It hits the ground with a soft thud.

6:07 PM
I learned how to skin game when I was very young. My father would take me for hunting trips on days he wasn't busy and taught me many things. I have a refined technique from years of experience- I take pride in my work.

Which is why I'm not sure why I'm digging my fingers into the bullet hole, desperately trying to peel the skin and fur off. It resists. I pull. I tug. It relents. This is all very sloppy. The pelt is ruined and my shirt is stained, but I don't care.

There is a hole in its chest now, large enough to fit most of my hand. With its head hanging upside down it almost appears to be grinning... Is this what you want? No, this is about me. This is what I want! There is something hidden in your chest and I NEED IT.

I can hear its muffled beating in my ear. Pulsating. Oozing. Confined behind prison bars of bone and a wall of flesh. My nails dig into muscle and my stomach feels more hollow than ever. I can't grab it. My hand is too slick with blood.

6:08 PM
Snap. There's a hollow crunch as the rib my fingers were wrapped around gave way and broke apart. Another snap. Another bone broken. I can now fit my hand into the ribcage. It's still warm. The pads of my fingers rub against slick flesh. Organs and muscles. Where is it?

I feel it in my palm. A heart. It doesn't beat, but I swear I can hear it in my ears. Thundering. Drumming. It doesn't beat, but it clicks. Not literally. It clicks to me that this is what I've been looking for. My fingers wrap around the heart of the beast, and my free hand digs into its fur.

Thought Conglomerate

Thoughts of A Plaything

It can be hard to enjoy life when you're like me. The entire world takes one look at me and insists I should be kept in a bubble, for safekeeping. All because I am small. All because I am delicate. All because for my entire life, I have been easily hurt.

So to preserve me, I am barred from experiencing life...both the good, and the bad. People, in their infinite wisdom, believe it would be better for me to feel nothing if it meant I would be protected. Funny, they can't seem to understand that I'd rather feel nothing but pain rather than nothing at all. I can't understand why, either.

But even amongst the pitiful smiles flashed by strangers, I can still find a way to feel something. The dull tinge of apathy can be washed away, even if it's not for long. There is a temporary escape from the void.

My nails dig into the mattress as I clutch the bedsheets. Hands. Hands larger and rougher than my own hold onto my waist. There is a pressure on my body as they move to caress my stomach, which rises and falls as I breathe. I am okay with this because here, I am alive.

Hands. They may be bigger than my own, but they are gentle. Light touches against my skin as my body is examined. Fleeting. I can't help but break. All I want is to escape the void. Treat me like I am made of blood and guts and not paper. Like you, I am a construct of flesh. Act like it. I can't say it, but I think the words clearly as a soft noise escapes me.

I say no words, but I am understood. A soft breath exits my pink lips, nothing but a faint whine. But to him, the undertones of desperation are heard. He can hear the plea looping in my mind. My desperation for more. More feeling. More attention. More something...

Indulgence. That is all this is. Indulgence in the primal urges that make us all so painfully human. I am human, too. He knows that now. My prayers are answered when he grabs my wrists, hard. I don't care if it leaves red marks against my porcelain skin. I'll wear them with pride. Hues of pink, purple, and blue that break against the whiteness of my body. White, the color of purity, stained by the marks of sinful acts.

It hurts a bit. I am small, I know this, I've accepted it. Still, pain is better than nothing at all. The twinge of my wrists being pressed against the sheets by his weight...it mixes beautifully with the euphoria of the moment. This pain in my hands feels nothing like the deadening weight of the chains used to hold me down. As I am lost, drowning in a sea of ecstasy, my shackles are gone.

The world loves irony. It loves to laugh at the coincidences it births into existence- like my life. I am still waiting for the punchline of this cruel joke that is partially of my own making. I probably shouldn't have named myself after an object if my deepest desire is to be treated like a fellow human being.

I may be the colors of a saint- or a ghost, depending on how you look at it. I may be named after a child's plaything, but...I am very much human. I make mistakes like one and I have desires like one. Undeniable proof that I am very much alive. I have never felt so alive in all of my sheltered years than I do now, consumed by both pleasure and pain. It is intense. It makes my body shake and my voice wavers. It is all of the feelings I was deprived of being administered to me all at once. Again, I can't help myself. There are no still no words as I exhale, mewling into his ear.

These are not cries of pain, or protest, or desperation. When I am truly hurt, I don't make noise. I don't let them know they've broken me. So I whimper, nestling into his body. It's warm. I feel so warm when I'm not alone. The voice of the void is cold and empty, and it whispers into my ear like I whine into his… But for now, I am deaf. I cannot hear its call. All I hear is myself, and his breath against me.

I know I will ache when morning comes, but that does not stop me- or him. My head spins from the sensations coursing through my being. With each heartbeat, I tense, tugging at the blanket and arching my back. It is all so much to experience… The line between pleasure and pain was blurred long ago. My eyes water. I shut them. I may be spread open for him to see, touch, and use. I am vulnerable and pinned, but I will not share the intimacy of shedding tears with him, or anybody else. I refuse to be a crybaby.

I learned to never show weakness. Those like me who flaunt their fragility in a parade of warm tears die. Deep down, this world is survival of the fittest, even if the weak are treated with pity. I am by no means the physically strongest, but I will not let my death be a product of Darwinism. Here, splayed in bed, I have a purpose. I am spared from the steely fangs of natural selection, because I play a role in my ecosystem- and I can fight for it.

I suck in a breath, my chest shaking, and my eyes flutter open. I can move my hands again. One by one, I tap my fingertips against my thumb. My wrists ache as I move my digits, but I can move them freely now. There is no pressure holding me still anymore. Why? He had stopped. I was looking into his eyes. I am sure mine were wide, people always said I had big eyes. Glossy pools of grayish-blue. Pale, like the rest of me.

He had stopped. I was slipping back into the void. The more he pulled away, the deeper I fell into the vast pit of nothingness. I was alone, like I always was. Maybe I am foolish. Foolish for believing that any of them would actually stay afterwards. It was childish, but I hoped so. Maybe eventually, there would be a day when somebody would stay behind to help clear up the mess I made of my life. Please?

---

Thoughts of Buck Anderlow

I am absolutely terrified of you. I can barely touch you without getting scared. Your hand barely fits into mine. Holding you close feels almost unnatural. Your body is so small compared to mine... When we talk, I have to look down. To kiss, I have to gently tilt your chin up with my hand.

Even now, reaching for your face so that we can touch lips is making me nervous. You're the confident one here, though. I can tell. There is no fear in your eyes or hesitation in your movements. You are in your element.

I didn't notice at first, but your nimble little hands were unbuttoning my shirt. So dexterous. Have you done this that many times? You have petite hands- everything about you is petite. We are so incredibly different. My hands are large and weathered, sometimes even a bit clumsy. You don't notice, though. That's because I'm doing everything I can to make sure they don't slip out of place.

Do you always wear shirts too big for you? Or is it that hard to find anything in the right size? I am being very careful with my big hands, undressing you as if I was handling a porcelain doll. You look like one, with those round eyes and long white hair.

I don't know why seeing the pale skin that hides beneath your clothes surprises me so much. What did I expect? It's exactly the same as it is on your face and arms, and yet… You are so beautiful. I could stare at your milky complexion for hours. It's as soft as it looks, too.

Am I in love? Or is this just a new fetish? I can't tear my eyes off of you, and I can't keep my hands to myself. They travel across your chest and torso, lower and lower… You don't seem to mind. You encourage it, actually. I pull more fabric away from your figure, and I hold your features with my weathered hands. Gorgeous thing.

You turn pink! The color suits you. The more I drag my fingers across your body, relishing the soft friction of your skin against mine, the more color blossoms on your face. Pink, almost red. The color of passion spreading across your cheeks. I want to see how red I can turn that snow-white skin. Do you like this as much as I do? I hope so.

I'm sure you do. In fact, you beg for more. Is this a good idea? My clumsy hands are wrapped around your dainty wrists. I could snap them if I wasn't careful. I promise I'll do everything I can to be cautious. You vocalize again but don't speak. It's an assurance that I'm doing the right thing. Your whines are a pleasant melody. Music. Soft, but crescendoing. Even so, are you sure I'm not hurting you?

Your head is tilted back. When your breath shudders, your entire body trembles a bit. I can feel it. You are so...weak! Melting at the feelings I'm bestowing upon you. I have to hold your wrists still to keep you in place, and yet it only takes a fraction of my strength to do so. Even so, even with my weight against you, you refuse to falter. I think that's brave…and maybe a little stupid.

I feel it, too. Pleasure. It makes you pant and squirm beneath me. Your delicate body's reactions to it are both endearing and worrying. Are you being dramatic, or am I hurting you? I can't always tell, I've never had to read somebody so small before. You aren't unbelievably short, but accompanied with your fragile build. You seem so much smaller than you are. I'd try to be more gentle, but that only seems to vex you.

Are you an angel? Is it a sin to sleep with an angel? It doesn't matter, does it? This is already a sin, and you've done it before, countless times. I'm lying with you when I don't even think you know my name… I would like it if you did, but telling you might be inappropriate. I know how this works. Preferably, we will never see each other after tonight. Preferably for you, but not for me.

I want to get to know you- not just your body. I want to know what makes you laugh. I only heard it briefly before undressing you, but it's just as addicting as when you whimper into my ear. You are so close to me right now, and you only get closer by nestling into me. Still, I feel like I know nothing about you! But I can't ask now, I'm not even sure if I can talk. I think if you tried, you'd barely be able to get a word out. I don't blame you, you're trembling so much.

Even if it feels awkward and unnatural at times, I'll miss it when your hand isn't in mine. I swear I'll do everything I can to make sure you are safe. I want you to be mine. God, I can't get you out of my head! Your smile. Your sweet scent. I could get drunk off of you if you'd let me... I think this is love.

I am still terrified of you. How do I tell you all of this? How do I tell you that these few hours have been the best in my life in years? Would you believe me if I said "I love you" right now? I mean it, I promise- I… Would you even love me back?

---

Thoughts of Pascal Harper

You look at me as if I'm the pervert here. I'm almost insulted. I may be a prostitute, but I keep that tucked away. Hidden behind closed doors. You're the one that came looking for it. You're the one who asked. Who's the real solicitor here?

You should really blink more, it's unnerving. The fact that you won't stop staring at me like I'm a prize makes my nose wrinkle- but you can't see that, can you? You're blinded by my white skin. Stuck in a trance to bore your eyes into me like I'm a piece of meat...and you're a starved wolf.

I'm astounded that I ever enjoyed this. How could I have basked confidently in your gaze when you look at me like that? You're starving, I can see that oh so clearly. I'm pretty sure there's drool pooling in your mouth. You're not the only man who salivates in my presence, and you weren't the first… I doubt you'll be the last.

I throw myself to the lions willingly. Somebody needs to feed them, eventually. That's my job. And I'm getting tired of it. I am sick of having my flesh stripped from my bones, metaphorically. The only thing actually being stripped is my clothing- and you're the one doing it. But what's the difference? Either way, I'm being pulled apart and made vulnerable.

And for what? Money? I'm always a bit short on that… You know that. That's why you seized your chance the moment it revealed itself. I couldn't say no to that wad of cash, and you in extension, so here we are. Enjoy it while it lasts, because next time you ask I will gouge your unblinking eyes out with my bare hands.

I hate you so, so much. Be more gentle, you're going to bruise my wrists. I am not a toy, I can get hurt. There's no point in telling you this because you don't listen. You have never listened. I am convinced your brain rotted away years ago, or maybe you were born without one. Oh, to be stupid. If ignorance is bliss, your life must be incredibly happy.

I am miserable because I am smarter than you, and also you're rusty. I know this sounds egocentric, but I'm right. I think over the past few years I have matured more. It was a strange process, but I understand now that I deserve respect- and I need to respect myself. Clearly, you will never see me as anything more than a trophy. The epitome of your desires. I'm your fetish.

You have not and most likely will not ever respect me, so why am I here? Lying with you is an insult to myself. Money. It's all for the money. I will take immense satisfaction in the fact that I was able to nearly triple my prices for you. It's the small victories. I will bleed you dry, just like how you drink my blood when you rip me apart (figuratively). This is a metaphor for something.

I honestly can't tell who's who in this game of cat and mouse. Who has really won? On one hand, I caved… I am willingly letting you hurt me. On the other, well, there's not much. There's the fact that you will never be able to do this again, but I don't think that's enough. Dammit! I'm not as crafty as you because I don't have some innate desire to want to emotionally harm people. Oh, you can deny it all you want, but I know you feel euphoria when somebody is under your thumb. You disgust me.

That's what's on the other hand. I can deny that feeling to you because I am not yours. I am not your plaything anymore- and even here, I can have some semblance of control. Just enough to remind you that I am not your bitch. You can cry your fake little tears and whine about how you miss me. I don't care about your feelings anymore, you know? You hold no power over me because you are worth less than trash in my eyes, and I hope you burn. Consider this a parting gift.

Thought Conglomerate

Literal Nonsense

Oh, to be a mysterious stranger broadcasting a nonsensical message over the radio. Only for the words to be heard by another even more mysterious stranger, who listens to the words through a crackling radio. Between pops and cracks...a message- a warning? A prophecy? Pure nonsense that somehow made sense. What a dream.

Between the frivolous fabrics of irrational, rational realities. Do you hear me out there? Do you know what I am? I walk and I talk. It’s all so painfully human. The listener is not human. The hum of static as it falls into worlds beyond. Droning through the wind... Nothing but a meaningless noise- but if read between the lines, there is so much meaning.

Like a calendar, our days are numbered. Isn’t it beautiful to be finite? Time ticks and the world ends, but there’s more out there. As the world ends, another will continue, and yet it will not. You can hear me. You may hear my words as they pass through. However, I cannot hear you. So scream! Scream and yell into the empty voice of space! A void that is so empty that it is full of particles. Shout into it for me.

---

Inspiration 3

That's how the mornings always started in this tiny, uneventful town.
Without much of a choice, the rooster would crow and the farmer and his family would rise. They always got up the earliest- unless you counted the night watch security guard at the Funday-All-Day Arcade. The security guard was always done with their shift by 6 in the morning but had been awake since somewhere around 11 PM last night. 7 hours of doing nothing in the dark. Every. Single. Night.

But that's just how things work around here. Monotony is our way of life in our quaint little town, and we have reveled in it since our founding in the mid-1900s, and we will continue to do so until our eventual deaths sometime in the not-so-distant-future.

Regardless, by the time the Arcade's night guard went home, the farmer's children were already ready for school. They'd pack their little lunch bags with the same meal every day and then walk to school- no skipping, no running, no trotting, or teetering, or tottering. Just. Walking. The other children would walk as well, or be picked up by a yellow school bus with fading paint.

The parents of the children would sip on their coffee, simultaneously, while driving their sedans to a non-specific office building that belonged to a non-specific government agency, or to the supermarket to exchange currency for food and drink, and THEN drive to the office building. This is mandatory, of course.

And me? I just do what everybody else does, because that's our motto! "Conformity brings happiness, and individuality is a sin.", as our mayor would say. Don't you agree? Welcome to Boring, a small town located somewhere on this tiny planet that's hurtling across the universe at unfathomable speeds. Wipe your shoes on the welcome mat, sit back, and don't touch anything- and more importantly: don't ask questions.

Thought Conglomerate

Prelude to the Apocalypse

Open your eyes
Stare into the void of the night
The stars in the sky blink as you watch
And the void stares back

The wind whips your face
Grains of sand scratching at your skin
You close your eyes
You blink

Just for a moment
While your vision dark
The sky changes
The moon smiles

In victory, the wind howls
A cold laugh to the ears
Another fool has lost the game
The game of locking eyes

Beyond the horizon
With a thunderous roar
Lightning strikes the parched earth
A storm is approaching
You smile with the moon
A smirk that makes your lips curl
And you laugh with the wind
While the world ends

You couldn’t be happier

---

I don't even own a typewriter.

Musty paper resting in portrait.
Dull on the eyes.
Mundane.

Metal rods and buttons, unused.
Cold on the fingertips.
Uninviting.

Thick curtain of stale air.
Dusty on the tongue.
Uncomfortable.

Dried spiral of ink.
Acrid on the nose.
Useless.

Dingy, old margin bell.
Sharp on the ears.
Irritating.

Old typewriter.
Obsolete.
Thank you.

Thought Conglomerate

Soon-to-be poetry/short story collection.

LoZ: Age of Darkness (Closed & Moved to New Int Check)

busy as of yet, but i'll hop in eventually

:ὁ Animalia [OPEN!]

nice to hear. I've kinda constantly been on the verge of utter collapse ngl so i might take a while to join

:ὁ Animalia [OPEN!]

oh SHITD wassup

:ὁ Animalia [OPEN!]

Hewwo

Malaise (A BoTW Fic)

Chapter 2: Night Terrors

After much twisting and turning in the blankets, Link managed to doze off. Dozing was an understatement, though. His mouth hung agape and a surprisingly loud snore escaped him with each inhale. An arm hung limply from the side of his bed, almost grazing the floor. His other arm was gripping the soldier’s broadsword to his chest. Luckily, the blade was still sheathed. This was probably the best sleep Link had since he was resurrected- not counting his time in the shrine, of course. Nothing could top a hundred years of intense napping.

To the left of the sleeping knight, blue eyes pierced the dark. A hand obscured by shadow slipped under the curtain and reached for the Sheikah Slate strapped to Link’s belt, which was glowing faintly. The slate was easily removed, almost too easily. The thief indeed was the one skulking with a hood that covered their face. However, in the dark, they- or, he had removed it. Though his face wouldn’t be discernable to anybody who couldn’t see in the dark, it was indeed masculine. Stone-faced, the stranger slipped the slate into his cloak and began to make his escape.

He moved with delicate precision. Each footfall was planned and silent, but most importantly: quick. It was unnatural how one could move such finesse without causing a disturbance. It was a technique the thief had learned several years ago…a skill that combined the art of stealth and a natural gift unique to his people, but it was a skill that was largely forgotten. Not even the loose planks of the wooden floor could stop him.

Link stirred after he felt something brush against the hand that stuck out from the bedframe. Reflexively, he grabbed it. With the curtain in his face, the Hylian wasn’t sure what he was holding, but it felt like an extremely light-weight cloth. He rubbed it between his fingers and palm. Still not fully awake, he opened the privacy-curtain rather noisily and popped his head out to get a gander at what it was. His eyes weren’t adjusted to the gloom and all he saw were splotches of darkness, but his grip on the fabric tightened.

Meanwhile, the thief noticed a slight tug on his cloak. It was subtle, but he felt the resistance against his neck. Then, he stiffened as he heard the scraping of metal. The slumbering hero was finally awake. He had never felt so frustrated, not in a long time. The thief swallowed his urge to scream and throttle the Hylian. Instead, he untied the cloak and let it fall to the floor. Though doing this would compromise his position, he knew Link’s eyes would be drawn to the motion instead of him.

The fabric fluttered to the ground. As predicted, Link’s focus snapped to the falling cloak. He stood up, one hand still gripping the cloth. He yanked it to him, eyes narrowing to examine what he’d just grabbed. Ah, this was indeed a cloak, Link was sure of it. He was also sure that cloaks did not mysteriously fall to the ground for no particular reason in the dead of night. How perplexing… His free hand went for the broadsword on his bed.

Sword in hand, Link dropped the cloak and began to tiptoe passed the bed frame. His stealthiness was nothing compared to the thief’s. The floorboards creaked, and he breathed ever so slightly out of his mouth. Though he could detect motion with his eyes, the inky blackness of the night kept him from making out his immediate surroundings. Ugh- He let out a grunt as he walked face first into a wooden post. His nose scrunched up against the wood, making him draw away quickly. His hands instinctively went to cover his schnozz, which now stung.

The thief, who was behind the post, was ready and poised to strike. However, a hollow thunk from the other side made him tense. He craned his neck to check the other side, and quizzically observed the Hylian hero. He noticed Link’s eyes were jammed shut. Ah, the idiot knocked himself into the post. Seizing the opportunity, and not bothering to stay stealthy, he bolted towards the exit on his left. Link’s ears twitched at the sound of footsteps, but his eyes were watering so much he couldn’t open them. Damn! The rustling of heavy fabric told him that the bastard had disappeared outside.

It was while pulling on his shoes did Link notice the sudden disappearance of the Sheikah slate. He made a funny wheezing noise and looked through the bedsheets to see if it fell off his belt. Of course, he knew the stable kook had stolen it, but he wanted to make sure. No longer feeling drowsy from waking up in the middle of the night, Link bolted towards the stable’s exit. He raised his hands, throwing the heavy canvas out of his way.

It was still dark outside, but his eyes were already adjusted to the gloom. What surprised him the most was the cold prickle of raindrops landing on his skin. The Hylian cursed under his breath, knowing an impending storm put him on a timer for tracking the freak that stole his garbage. Even worse, he felt cold already. Shivering slightly, Link scanned the area, not seeing a trace of the thief. All he could see amidst the night were tall, gnarled trees in the distance and the bases of the mountains. It was peaceful- and quiet. It seemed the oncoming rain shut up most creatures aside from a few frogs.

The scene was broken by the not-so-distant, startled cries of horses. The unfamiliar sound scared Link and he grabbed his sword. He began to stalk his way closer to the disturbance, feeling quite startled himself. The pounding of hooves against dirt alerted him to a terrifyingly perplexing sight. Horses (he thought they were horses) were streaming in all directions, letting out sharp cries and rearing their large heads. Link couldn't explain why, but he knew they were scared and not aggressive. He strained his eyes and ears to try and figure out what disturbed them.

Between crumbling stone brick and tall grass that could reach up to Link’s chest, he saw what he assumed to be the thieving bastard. His appearance had changed. Since the cloak was gone, the Hylian could see a mop of long, white hair tied into a bun. As the stranger leapt over a section of the wall, Link caught sight of his face. Unfortunately, a sort of mask obscured his nose and mouth. All that was visible was a piercing blue eye that reminded Link too much of his own. With his enemy now in sight, the hero charged forward with his blade drawn. While he was bringing down his sword with a mighty swing, the Mystery Man turned into a puff of smoke. The smog was thick enough to make Link cough and shut his eyes. He rubbed his face furiously and sputtered.

The smoke faded and Link was able to come back to his senses rather quickly, but not quick enough. He retrieved his weapon from the wet earth and peeked his head over the weathered wall to see...nothing! He was gone. Dumbfounded, he straightened up and scanned the surroundings. He couldn't see very far or hear much because of the rain, which had progressed from a sprinkle to a shower. Damn! He shuddered violently, reminded of just how frigid it was outside. His now waterlogged clothing sucked the warmth out of him, and the stormy weather made him feel stiff. It was time to admit defeat. If he tried to stick it out here in the rain, he'd probably get a cold. The rational part of his brain told him that it was too dangerous to wander about an open field at night during a storm, especially since he saw a crack of lightning light the horizon. Too tired to argue with himself, he retired back to the inside of the tent.

Link had his head buried in a shirt from his pack. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, drying his golden mop with it. He didn’t have a towel, so a dry shirt would have to do. He’d hang it and the rest of his other waterlogged clothes to dry in the morning. As the air chilled his still damp skin, he only felt himself stiffen more. Link, deciding he’d had enough, sank into bed and wrapped himself back into a cocoon of itchy blankets. He felt too sore to be able to fall back asleep, but he needed to warm up before the dull aches grew worse.

At one point, the hylian did drift off, but it wasn’t for long. He was awoken by Tasseren drawing back the canvas openings to the tent. He was sure he was dreaming at one point, but his brain felt so sluggish that he couldn’t recall a single bit of it. Link slid out of bed, rubbing his eyes from the faint sunlight filtering in. He didn’t feel refreshed at all. Regardless, he needed to get going...or at least prepare to. His clothes still needed to dry. He couldn’t go walking around the wilderness in his pajamas! Link picked up the pile of moist clothing and trudged outside, only giving Tasseran a curt nod of acknowledgement when greeted.

Link chewed on a crisp apple as he hung his clothing to dry on some twine. The sunlight was still weak and the air was humid from the rain, but it would hopefully warm up later. As he was trying to eat, he couldn’t help but replay the disaster that was last night in his head. His brow was scrunched and he had his nose wrinkled. If only he was more vigilant! He had his most prized possession swiped out from under him by some...some guy! Directly across from him was a shrine, its alluring orange glow reflecting from a shallow pond it was settled in. The sight of it made him feel all the more disappointed in himself. Without his slate, he couldn’t open it. Without that stupid slate, he had no answers!

Link, frustrated, let out a growl and threw the half-eaten apple as far as he could. It soared through the air and landed somewhere behind a fence. Good riddance, he wasn’t hungry anyway… The hylian was then reminded that he was not alone. He wasn’t very used to having other people around yet, and grew anxious when the sound of footsteps from behind reached his ears. Again, he reached for his sword hilt, but remembered he had left it inside. Probably for the better. He didn’t want a repeat of what happened over dinner again. He lowered his hand and turned to see Tasseren- no, wait… Upon closer inspection, he was sure it was his twin. He had never caught his name.

“Nice shot,” the twin remarked under a twitching mustache. Link, unsure of what to say, said nothing in response. The other man went to gather a pitchfork, presumably to give the horses hay. He spoke again as he got to work. “What’s eating at you?”

“I’m lost,” was all Link mumbled. He didn’t want to get into it.

The man scratched his chin and let out a ‘hm’ before piping up again. “Well, I know this area like the back of my hand. Where’re you heading?”

“Kakariko Village.” The tone of Link’s answers were growing ever more duller.

“Follow the north trail to the bridge and keep going. Straight shot, can’t miss it. It’s less than a day’s travel on horseback,” the man advised.

Link so desperately wanted to be polite, but he was tired and wasn’t entirely sure how to be, anyway. He fell silent again. Damn, he probably needed a horse. The ones in the stalls already had loving owners, but he recalled hearing the wild ones were fair game- if you could catch one.

“You know, you’re a weird kid,” the twin commented.

“Thanks,” Link said flatly.

The twin, whose name was Rensa, soon left after pitching the hay to the animals. Link didn’t bother to interact with him more, so he was just fine with the man’s absence. At one point, he had gathered his things from inside and brought them by the cooking pot. For the past few minutes, Link had been ceaselessly rifling through his bag and organizing what he did and didn’t need. He also made a mental list of what he may need to gather before embarking off again. It kept his mind busy. The sun had climbed a decent amount into the sky when the hero finished his self-assigned chore. Currently, he was drawing his thumbnail up and down the teeth of a comb he had recently acquired.

The comb wasn’t anything special. Like most of his things, he’d found it while raiding a monster encampment. He suspected the bokoblins kept it because it was shiny- they certainly didn’t need it to comb their hair since they were pretty much bald. Poor, ugly bastards. Link dragged the comb through his hair, and it almost immediately got caught on knots and tangles. Perhaps falling asleep with a head of wet hair wasn’t the greatest idea. He didn’t care, though. He tugged the comb free and went back to it. Eventually, with his hair now tamed, Link pulled it back into a low ponytail. It kept the back of his neck from overheating on hot days like today. He was sure the temperature would only rise more by noon. There was barely a cloud in the heavens now. Like his spirits, it seemed they all dissipated.