mars is a wasteland

*Halloran* · (This post was last modified: 08-18-2016, 02:41 PM by Halloran.)

HELL IS EMPTY, ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE When he was very young, Halloran had stumbled onto a vicious ant pile; one of the few memories he has remaining of his father before his death. They'd been roaming the spine of the mountains above their seaside home on a week-long trip. It had been to test his drive, his stamina, his lungs at such a young age; having been born in the Autumn when a wolf's health was often improving from the summer heat. Halloran recalls setting after an odd looking trail out of curiosity, to see where they were all headed back to. This particular highway of critters led him to hold in the ground where they disappeared. Naturally, being the inquisitive child that he was, Halloran attempted to cover the hole a few times. He watched the ants climb over his paw in alarm and then around it. When he lifted his paw, the ant had calmed itself, and went on as if its home's entrance had never disappeared. In and out, they went, and Halloran watched, getting a feel for this small system of workers until he couldn't take it anymore. Needless to say, his digging up the earth, enlarging the hole the ants disappeared into, had not been his brightest idea, and his father had laughed when, reluctantly, Halloran had to let him toss him in the river that served as their water source in the winter. Bites covered his little body, and he'd adopted a special grudge for the little bugs that bit without mercy. He'd walked all the way home with those pussy sores on his body; learning how to curb his complaints in the face of his pain. But his father had turned that mistake of his into something as well, words that he didn't often live by, but still held dear.

What one would do to protect its home.
Its family.
Its friends.

There is wisdom in discovery, but there's also beauty in being naive, and you son, are not beautiful right now. It is with the ghost of his father's chuckling, a memory he hadn't revisited in a while, that she arrives from the heat-scorched land beyond him, and Halloran knows he is applying that day to this one; having caused no stir in a place he knows nothing about, and hurting for it. The sharp tang of his own blood still coats his tongue, and while he drags his stormy gaze to her, Halloran cannot help but wonder if she is a figment of his imagination; a mirage drudged up from the bowels of his beleaguered mind and heart. It would be convenient for him to miss the company of others and conjure the company of one who didn't really exist. Had he been more aware of himself, he would not have lingered so long when he saw her eyes; transfixing and unique in their colors. All water and verdant shades. Everything this land was lacking appeared in her gaze. Of course, in his travels, he was no stranger to the dual tones eyes could often take, but here, in this wasteland he'd found himself in, it was perhaps the most refreshing thing he'd laid eyes on in a month. Caught holding his injured paw aloft, Halloran gives a slow, stiff shrug, face twisted in a smile that resembles a grimace more than anything else.

"How rhetorical of you," He utters quietly and manages a slight nod, curious for this she-wolf who resembles the wading hours between afternoon and night; an evening specter in the birth of a new day. Would I ask myself if I were alright? If she was a figment of his imagination, would he make himself come to terms with his sorry state? What was it that he had to prove to himself, right now, that his subconscious might be trying to draw out? His left leg shakes, and Halloran's attention is drawn away from her; his head drooping a bit from that poise he'd endeavored to hold onto as he struggles to keep himself upright. Loath to show vulnerability before this stranger, real or not, he finds his mouth open, panting as his body flushes with heat and his wounds burn. Giving his head a slight shake to clear it of the fog still clinging to his thoughts, Halloran peers up at her from that slouched position of his, nose just a little closer to the glass stuck in his paw.

"I don't suppose you're some kind of healer extraordinaire?" Voice rough, but ironic, he eyes her angular face with a slight twinkle in his eyes. I don't know how else to make fun of myself. It was truly ridiculous that he had ended up the way he had; that spat with a few rogues had been a reckless move, and a dangerous one, at that, once he'd lost himself in this place. A sound catches and makes his ears twitch, and he looks back down at his paw; brow furrowing with all the clinical concern one would harbor from a hard life at the sight of his blood dripping onto the desert floor below him. As if to indicate his earlier statement, he lifts his eyes once more to look at her expectantly, and, for the first time since her arrival, hopes she is real in all the ways one can be.

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