Post by nightwhisper on May 19, 2015 2:31:16 GMT
Runnin' 'round leaving scars
The boy walked around casually, hands in his pockets, scanning the crowd. He saw a few silvers who looked particularly distracted and moved closer, all the while pretending to look in some shop windows. As he got close enough, he threw himself forward slightly, 'accidentally' bumping into the silver. The man, plump, cheeks turning white with anger, glared at him and barked, "watch your step, boy, or I'll have you arrested!" The boy held up his hands apologetically. "I'm so sorry, sir," he said, plastering an innocent, terrified look upon his face. Taking pleasure in his fear, the wealthy silver smiled slightly, his thick gray mustache seeming to curl even more. "Watch yourself," he said softly. The boy nodded vigorously, then walked away quickly. Once he was out of sight, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He pulled out the pocket watch he had nicked from the man's pocket when he bumped into him. He grinned to himself as he judged its value to be high, noticing the little gems embedded in it. He placed it back in his pocket and slipped out of the shadows, walking casually yet again.
collecting your jar of hearts
Who was he, you ask? He went by many names. Peter, George, Ronald, Mark, anything you could think of. But the name he heard most often were things like thief, wanted, criminal. He was, after all, one of the most wanted criminals in all of Norta. But he was a good guy. He only stole from rich, stuck up Silvers, and occasionally rich reds, all people who had money to spare. They wouldn't miss a few coins or trinkets. And he only took what he needed. He never stole just because it was fun (okay, maybe once, but not anymore): he only took as much as he needed to get himself food, shelter, clothes. Everyone always thought of him as the worst person around, at least, those who knew who and what he was, but he really wasn't too bad. If you got to know him, he could actually be really nice.
you're gonna catch a cold
But his real name. The name he kept a secret, the one no one knew. He hadn't heard that name in years, ever since he managed to run the day before his conscription. He could still hear that old name, echoing throughout his dreams, the guards roaring after him, his mother calling that name, telling him to keep running, the sound of her yelping as the guards forced her to her knees, and the last words he ever heard her say: "never stop running, my son, and don't look back." He had followed her orders, sprinting as fast and as far as he could, ignoring the screams of the guards, the sound of heavy footsteps following him, slowly fading as he got faster. But there was one thing he remembered clearly: the one thing he wanted so desperately to forget. A woman's faint scream, a gunshot, and a thud. The thud of a body. But he refused to look back, refused to confirm his suspicions, just keep running, he told himself, tears streaming down his face, she did this for you. He never saw his mother again.
from the ice inside your soul
That memory replayed in his mind every night, each time with a horrifying new twist. Sometimes he heard the faint echoing of the words "it's your fault", clinging to the breeze. He often wished that they had just shot him as well. No matter how the dream changed itself, and it did-every detail was altered at eventually- the one thing that stayed the same was the gun. He always wondered why it was a gun. The silvers could have easily used their powers to think of something much more terrible and painful, so why use a simple gun? One night, after he woke up gasping for air from another nightmare, he realized. The sound. They had wanted him to hear the sound of the gun, the sound that brought about her end. That was the night he stole his greatest prize: the necklace. He saw it in the jewelry store window. It looked exactly like one that his mother had worn, but this one was real. A huge, shining ruby placed perfectly in the center of a solid gold heart. He always wore it as a reminder of his hatred for the silvers, of what they took from them, and why he must continue to steal from them. It was just a small way to hurt them, taking their little possessions when they undoubtedly had dozens of extras, but it was being noticed. Everyone had heard of him, of the greatest thief around. Everyone had heard of the Owl, a nickname he had been given. He didn't care much for it, but hey, at least he had a title.
don't come back for me
It almost made his job harder when people were nice to him. He would pretend to be all sweet and innocent and people would fall for it, even silvers. Once, a silver lady had actually GIVEN him a fistful of coins. And he still had to rob her. He had to keep telling himself what her people had done to him, to his mother, and had to force his hand to delicately pluck a few more valuable coins from her pockets. He felt so bad that he later simply gave them away to a little red orphan. That was what he did with his extra goods. Gave them to those who really needed them, those who were better then him and would never steal.
don't come back at all
He continued walking along the path, keeping his face hidden. No one had ever caught a glimpse of the Owl, and he wanted to keep it that way. He suddenly found himself longing for a friend: in his line of work, it was dangerous to make permanent connections with people, and he knew that, but all the same, he was rather lonely. He kept walking, pushing the thought from his head.
The boy walked around casually, hands in his pockets, scanning the crowd. He saw a few silvers who looked particularly distracted and moved closer, all the while pretending to look in some shop windows. As he got close enough, he threw himself forward slightly, 'accidentally' bumping into the silver. The man, plump, cheeks turning white with anger, glared at him and barked, "watch your step, boy, or I'll have you arrested!" The boy held up his hands apologetically. "I'm so sorry, sir," he said, plastering an innocent, terrified look upon his face. Taking pleasure in his fear, the wealthy silver smiled slightly, his thick gray mustache seeming to curl even more. "Watch yourself," he said softly. The boy nodded vigorously, then walked away quickly. Once he was out of sight, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He pulled out the pocket watch he had nicked from the man's pocket when he bumped into him. He grinned to himself as he judged its value to be high, noticing the little gems embedded in it. He placed it back in his pocket and slipped out of the shadows, walking casually yet again.
collecting your jar of hearts
Who was he, you ask? He went by many names. Peter, George, Ronald, Mark, anything you could think of. But the name he heard most often were things like thief, wanted, criminal. He was, after all, one of the most wanted criminals in all of Norta. But he was a good guy. He only stole from rich, stuck up Silvers, and occasionally rich reds, all people who had money to spare. They wouldn't miss a few coins or trinkets. And he only took what he needed. He never stole just because it was fun (okay, maybe once, but not anymore): he only took as much as he needed to get himself food, shelter, clothes. Everyone always thought of him as the worst person around, at least, those who knew who and what he was, but he really wasn't too bad. If you got to know him, he could actually be really nice.
you're gonna catch a cold
But his real name. The name he kept a secret, the one no one knew. He hadn't heard that name in years, ever since he managed to run the day before his conscription. He could still hear that old name, echoing throughout his dreams, the guards roaring after him, his mother calling that name, telling him to keep running, the sound of her yelping as the guards forced her to her knees, and the last words he ever heard her say: "never stop running, my son, and don't look back." He had followed her orders, sprinting as fast and as far as he could, ignoring the screams of the guards, the sound of heavy footsteps following him, slowly fading as he got faster. But there was one thing he remembered clearly: the one thing he wanted so desperately to forget. A woman's faint scream, a gunshot, and a thud. The thud of a body. But he refused to look back, refused to confirm his suspicions, just keep running, he told himself, tears streaming down his face, she did this for you. He never saw his mother again.
from the ice inside your soul
That memory replayed in his mind every night, each time with a horrifying new twist. Sometimes he heard the faint echoing of the words "it's your fault", clinging to the breeze. He often wished that they had just shot him as well. No matter how the dream changed itself, and it did-every detail was altered at eventually- the one thing that stayed the same was the gun. He always wondered why it was a gun. The silvers could have easily used their powers to think of something much more terrible and painful, so why use a simple gun? One night, after he woke up gasping for air from another nightmare, he realized. The sound. They had wanted him to hear the sound of the gun, the sound that brought about her end. That was the night he stole his greatest prize: the necklace. He saw it in the jewelry store window. It looked exactly like one that his mother had worn, but this one was real. A huge, shining ruby placed perfectly in the center of a solid gold heart. He always wore it as a reminder of his hatred for the silvers, of what they took from them, and why he must continue to steal from them. It was just a small way to hurt them, taking their little possessions when they undoubtedly had dozens of extras, but it was being noticed. Everyone had heard of him, of the greatest thief around. Everyone had heard of the Owl, a nickname he had been given. He didn't care much for it, but hey, at least he had a title.
don't come back for me
It almost made his job harder when people were nice to him. He would pretend to be all sweet and innocent and people would fall for it, even silvers. Once, a silver lady had actually GIVEN him a fistful of coins. And he still had to rob her. He had to keep telling himself what her people had done to him, to his mother, and had to force his hand to delicately pluck a few more valuable coins from her pockets. He felt so bad that he later simply gave them away to a little red orphan. That was what he did with his extra goods. Gave them to those who really needed them, those who were better then him and would never steal.
don't come back at all
He continued walking along the path, keeping his face hidden. No one had ever caught a glimpse of the Owl, and he wanted to keep it that way. He suddenly found himself longing for a friend: in his line of work, it was dangerous to make permanent connections with people, and he knew that, but all the same, he was rather lonely. He kept walking, pushing the thought from his head.
