For cnc2020
Lawd...
He's caught almost immediately, tagged and sent on his less then merry way. After all, he is only a young boy with horns and wind powers he doesn't even know how to use properly. It is only the communing with animals he seems competent with, and even that is barely a threat. Best of all he's confined to a wheelchair so he's easy to find. Easy to catch should he ever let the slightly more dangerous of his powers get out of hand.
In the years that follow, he learns what it is to be without aid. Without comfort. Without the slim bit of company his other odd friendships had given him. Most of all he learns the value of black market work as his horns keep him from ever getting a proper job. Eventually he learns the value of of a strong blade and patience as he takes to sawing his horns away and growing his hair to hide the leftover stubs. The sound of the blade spinning hard by his head so often has damaged his hearing irreparably.
Still, he is Tavros, and thus he is never without hope. Even as his chair begins to break down and he scrounges for the parts to keep it going. Fixes it with a clumsy hand that only slowly learns it's way around each simple mechanism. But as long as it's one more day one more day one more day. This becomes his mantra before too long. He is never broken, though he comes close once or twice.
It is in the summer, not more then a year ago now, that the breaks on his chair fail him finally, and he is sent careening down a hill, hands torn open in the effort to halt his momentum. He crashes, and in the tangle of tired metal and numbed out limbs and the years he has spent hiding himself behind all of it, something cracks in the back of his mind.
Maybe not cracks so much as wakes up, and suddenly the way the wind moves makes sense and he fucking flies, leaves behind the chair and the City and his name, and embraces something like confidence. It's like the stories. Like the histories he never really believed, back on Alternia.
The Summoner. Here to lead his own private revolution on the backs of the strongest beasts he can find. His touch is small for now, helping the imPorts he can and slipping away before he can get caught again. But his name is growing. The boy who flies. The boy who leads an army of teeth and claws and bristled fur. He isn't a child anymore, but he is still innocent like one and maybe he hopes one day to be the hero he has always imagined...
Let's see how long he can keep it up, hmm? B)
He's caught almost immediately, tagged and sent on his less then merry way. After all, he is only a young boy with horns and wind powers he doesn't even know how to use properly. It is only the communing with animals he seems competent with, and even that is barely a threat. Best of all he's confined to a wheelchair so he's easy to find. Easy to catch should he ever let the slightly more dangerous of his powers get out of hand.
In the years that follow, he learns what it is to be without aid. Without comfort. Without the slim bit of company his other odd friendships had given him. Most of all he learns the value of black market work as his horns keep him from ever getting a proper job. Eventually he learns the value of of a strong blade and patience as he takes to sawing his horns away and growing his hair to hide the leftover stubs. The sound of the blade spinning hard by his head so often has damaged his hearing irreparably.
Still, he is Tavros, and thus he is never without hope. Even as his chair begins to break down and he scrounges for the parts to keep it going. Fixes it with a clumsy hand that only slowly learns it's way around each simple mechanism. But as long as it's one more day one more day one more day. This becomes his mantra before too long. He is never broken, though he comes close once or twice.
It is in the summer, not more then a year ago now, that the breaks on his chair fail him finally, and he is sent careening down a hill, hands torn open in the effort to halt his momentum. He crashes, and in the tangle of tired metal and numbed out limbs and the years he has spent hiding himself behind all of it, something cracks in the back of his mind.
Maybe not cracks so much as wakes up, and suddenly the way the wind moves makes sense and he fucking flies, leaves behind the chair and the City and his name, and embraces something like confidence. It's like the stories. Like the histories he never really believed, back on Alternia.
The Summoner. Here to lead his own private revolution on the backs of the strongest beasts he can find. His touch is small for now, helping the imPorts he can and slipping away before he can get caught again. But his name is growing. The boy who flies. The boy who leads an army of teeth and claws and bristled fur. He isn't a child anymore, but he is still innocent like one and maybe he hopes one day to be the hero he has always imagined...
Let's see how long he can keep it up, hmm? B)