coffinflowers
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Isaiah He/him
The Surgeon
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(This post was last modified: August 10, 2018, 04:52:17 AM by Isaiah.)

The scraggly little one-eyed wolf sighed. 

The wheel of fortunes kept spinning. Those foolish enough to ride to the top of it inevitably found themselves crushed beneath its weight when it turned. Isaiah did not try to climb the wheel, or to stop it. It spun and spun, tearing ruts in the dirt and dripping blood as it rolled, and Isaiah's only concern was to avoid its path. That's why he was still here, after all the kings and queens who had ruled over him were dead or exiled. 

Isaiah pawed at the ground in the rose garden, dirt in his dainty toes. A pile of bulbs rested beside him. He paused to cough with exertion. A shallow bed wouldn't be good enough. Some plants were like corpses or secrets, and needed to be buried deep. 

There had been some chaos, something about the Sovereign and the Eyes, something about newly fashioned crowns for a new batch of heads. It all made so very little difference to the little one-eyed wolf. He had been born illegal, child of a slave. He'd become through deception and persistence a legitimate citizen of this forest, under some name or other. And then he was a Healer, and then he was an Acolyte, and then he was a Surgeon. Now he they called him the Star, but it didn't matter. Names were breath on the wind. His name had served Rapier, Blade, Scimitar, Ajax, Anya, Azuhel, Gideon, Azuhel again, and now three new strangers who called themselves the Greater Secret. But his heart had only ever served the forest. The forest was what ate them all in the end, swallowing their bodies into the roots and mosses and fungus. 

The wolf swept a dirty paw across his dirty face, pointlessly. He shook his shaggy, greasy coat, draped over his skeletal figure, sides still racked with coughing from the labor of his work. He looked around at the thorns and vines that surrounded the garden like a maze, blooming red against all the green. Isaiah loved flowers, though he couldn't say that roses were a favorite. "...Miss the fucking medic tower." He grumbles as he plops down by the half-finished bed. He'd put in a lot of work into that place. 

It'd gone up in flames of course. The costs of war. Oukoku and Azuhel did love their fire. 

In some distant future, incredible flora would blossom from the burned wound. But Isaiah didn't make too much of a habit of hoping for the future. That was a thing stupid people did.


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