Buddha's Zombie Wisdom
[One of the Heroes is aimlessly wandering Castle Town under the cover of night. It's cold, and -directing a withering stare at an innocent lamppost- he mentally chastises himself for not choosing someplace warmer to sulk. He doesn't like the Autumns and Winters of this Hyrule; All the cold ever reminds him of are the early mornings spent draping blankets over sleeping goats while trading songs and what little gossip there was to be had in Ordon.]
[A pair of street cats skirt his shadow as he walks. He likes animals but isn't in any mood to entertain. Unconcerned, they follow soundlessly as he turns corners and confronts alleyways. He walks, walks- not truly thinking, but not completely numb, either.]
[Sometimes anger comes without provocation, and when it does you don't think about it-you walk it off. Too well he knows that if he doesn't he'll end up fighting with it. In his mind's eye he pictures everything blank that he can think of (untouched snow yellow parchment cloudless skies) and presses anger back to a place where it can't reach him.]
[Out of mind, out of mind.]
[As he reaches a pile of abandoned boxes, something small flees his boots and takes his companions with it. The moment he's alone his anger flees, too, leaving only the sting of the night air in his chest. He breathes in deeply and immediately recognizes the taste of snow. Yesterday, a day otherwise perfectly ordinary and uninteresting in its every respect, had been his nineteenth birthday.
Ignoring memories of home that flash one after another into brilliant relief, he pushes mindlessly on into the center of town. Everything he doesn't need he leaves behind in muddy boot prints.]
[A pair of street cats skirt his shadow as he walks. He likes animals but isn't in any mood to entertain. Unconcerned, they follow soundlessly as he turns corners and confronts alleyways. He walks, walks- not truly thinking, but not completely numb, either.]
[Sometimes anger comes without provocation, and when it does you don't think about it-you walk it off. Too well he knows that if he doesn't he'll end up fighting with it. In his mind's eye he pictures everything blank that he can think of (untouched snow yellow parchment cloudless skies) and presses anger back to a place where it can't reach him.]
[Out of mind, out of mind.]
[As he reaches a pile of abandoned boxes, something small flees his boots and takes his companions with it. The moment he's alone his anger flees, too, leaving only the sting of the night air in his chest. He breathes in deeply and immediately recognizes the taste of snow. Yesterday, a day otherwise perfectly ordinary and uninteresting in its every respect, had been his nineteenth birthday.
Ignoring memories of home that flash one after another into brilliant relief, he pushes mindlessly on into the center of town. Everything he doesn't need he leaves behind in muddy boot prints.]