The Wild Man's Pk Post Part Two: His Perfect Creation

[AlphaMoist 1707]

The 8^th of The Great Harvest, 1725

 

A small halfling wanders up a hill with an unemotional frown resting against his lips. His eyes devoid of everything but anger and desperation, he opens his mouth to speak.

“You’re a difficult man to find, Rafe.”

 

--- --- ---

 

A hairy, broken beast lay on the ground just below the hill, blood spilling out of his back from his point of impact with the ground. Dazed and weak, The Wild Man keeps his gaze on the halfling who had followed him throughout the fall.

 

”Dammit Rafe! Dammit all!”

The halfling shouted, gritting his teeth furiously as he stared down at the former alchemist. 

 

“I was the pinnacle of creation, Rafe! You made me to be perfect! Remember?! Perfect!”

The halfling shouts wildly again, then slowly begins to shake his head as the fiery emotion slowly begins to fade away from his features. He emits a low, unempathetic drone.

 

“And if you can’t fix me.. Then you are useless to me.”

He jumps forwards, landing on The Wild Man’s gut, sending a large volume of blood and bile out of his mouth, matting the creature’s fur as it began to release a few raspy breaths.

 

“I don’t want to see this ugly beast die. I want to see Rafe die.”

The halfling walks on The Wild Man’s body, then squats over the dying creature’s chest. He pulls out a pair of  shears that had been snapped in half, forming a crude knife that comfortably fit the halfling’s small size. After grabbing the nonresistant wildling’s chin, the halfling leans in and brings the jury-rigged knife to the base of The Wild Man’s flesh. He then began to drag the blade underneath fur and atop of skin, shaving the beast as a wicked smile crept across Marcas’ face.

 

“Wouldn’t you say this is fitting, Rafe? The creation overcomes the creator! They write stories about this kind of stuff, you know.”

A few chuckles escape from the halfling’s breath before all emotion fades once again from his demeanor, and the blade continues to streak against The Wild Man’s face, hair falling to the ground in large, bloody chunks.

 

”Sadly, the final act of your story will never be known to the world.”

The halfling stands up, looking down at the mess he had made of the man. Wild Man’s face lay naked in the air, hairless for the first time in possibly a century. It was the first thing Marcas had seen when he was created in Rafe’s alchemical lab all those years ago, and while the halfling held no possibility of feeling any regret for the actions he committed this day, he was mildly annoyed by the fact that he didn’t get more use out of his creator before his transition into The Wild Man became complete and permanent. The longer Marcas spent staring down at The Wild Man’s now familiar face, the longer his scowl grew against his face.

 

”Now that is the Rafe we all know and love. Truly an improvement.”

With that, the former homunculus brought his boot high into the air, and he began to stomp onto The Wild Man’s face, an angry, furious roar escaping from his tiny through. He continues this for what seems like hours, but in reality would have only been a few long minutes. The Wild Man provided no resistance at all, and by the time the halfling’s rage was over,  Rafe’s last breath had long since been released.

 

The halfling backed away from The Wild Man’s body. He huffed and desperately tried to catch his breath, an action he wasn’t used to performing at all. He then stood up and lifted his right foot to observe the boot.

 

“Damn, I’m going to have to clean this now..”

Marcas’ gaze then darted back to the lifeless corpse of The Wild Man, and a short grin overcame his features as he noticed the intact locks of fur covering the body. He wandered back towards The Wild Man, and he gripped the knife in his hand tightly, almost eagerly.

 

“You know what, Rafe? I was wrong. You can still prove to be useful!”

 

--- --- ---

 

The 23^rd of The Great Harvest, 1725

 

A  small halfling wanders into a sutican tavern, then slowly climbs up onto a barstool. He beckons the bartender closer, and the human greets him with a smile.

 

“Ah, Lyle Fiddlewit! What will it be today?”

 

“Oh, yeh kno’ meh, jus’ give meh som’en spiceh an’ oi’ll go ‘ome ‘appily!”

 

The bartender nods with a chuckle, and he begins to write something down for his cook to prepare. He then takes a prolonged glance towards the halfling, and he gestures to him.

 

”Say, Lyle.. where’d you get that cap? It looks rather fitting on you!”

 

“Oh, wha’, t’is?”

The halfling pulls off the coon-style cap from atop his head, then ran his fingers through its thick, dark brown fur.

“Than’ yeh! Oi ma’e et moi’self!

[SpodoKaiba 607]

Marcy frowns in being more perfect than Marcas.

[NotEvilAtAll 9937]

Pervinca Driftwood wonders why any respectable halfling would dare live outside of Brandybrook, the magnificent home of the wee that’ll probably become more active than Aegrothond if recent trends stay constant.

 

She’d snort “Darned Su’ica ‘arborin’ halflin’s t’ey nay deserve! Glad oi lef’ tha’ place fer t’eh greener pas’ures o’ Brandybrook. A’ leas’ yah aren’ mugged evereh othah day ‘ere.”

[FreeHongKong 934]

6 hours ago, NotEvilAtAll said:

Pervinca Driftwood wonders why any respectable halfling would dare live outside of Brandybrook, the magnificent home of the wee that’ll probably become more active than Aegrothond if recent trends stay constant.

 

She’d snort “Darned Su’ica ‘arborin’ halflin’s t’ey nay deserve! Glad oi lef’ tha’ place fer t’eh greener pas’ures o’ Brandybrook. A’ leas’ yah aren’ mugged evereh othah day ‘ere.”

Thinking out loud I see thinks another thinker.