This is definately not roughtly a hundred words, but this isn't school, so booya.
Folken
Dilandau was convinced Folken drank like a pussy. He asked Folken if he had ever been “raging, fucking drunk” one meeting as he snatched the wine bottle from the center of the table after Folken had said that he was done after one glass. Folken said no, of course, and half-realized a precursor-thought along the nerves of his living hand wanting to touch the bruise-colored teardrop under his eye, before his conscious self kept his body stationary and calm.
He had been seventeen when that had happened. It was the first and only time he had ever been fully drunk, on a surreal night of crippling depression and rare sheer impulse, and he had awoken face-down in his bed, still fully clothed in his apprentice robes, with the urge to vomit and a hellish hangover. Upon falling back into his bed, somehow not waking his roommate with all of this, he realized that there was a gauze patch taped under his right eye, and that when he gingerly pressed the patch, his cheek was rather tender, and blood caught in the lower layers of the patch oozed onto his fingertip.
He was too scared to remove the patch for a good hour, and when he finally did, he had to steady himself on the sink when his knees almost gave out.
When he was in better moods he regretted the tattoo, convinced it was far over-the-top, tacky, and melodramatic, but then again, he had gotten his ears pierced when he was rock-sober, and had started spiking his hair into a punkish mullet and wearing bruise-colored eyeliner soon after, and had never stopped since. He wasn’t sure, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, if this change would have happened independent of getting that damn tattoo. Though, it was only a supplementary inspiration in his final-year thesis paper in psychology regarding natural physical appearance and the adulteration thereof, and its effect on psychaeobehavorial paradoxes. The main inspiration of that had been his arm and the rigorous analysis of his self-image following that really didn’t help his depression, despite its brilliance and clarity.
He had analyzed the changes in the microcosmic context of the chain leading from the loss of his arm, and had then spent half of the paper arguing that there was no such thing as a “microcosm”, since all things are connected in an infinitely complex chain of physiochemical movement and causal reaction. He had furthermore concluded that both independent analysis of each conscious alteration to his appearance both hinged upon his past and could only be analyzed within the context of themselves as an infinitely small point in time.
The teacher had failed his paper for lack of clarity and cohesiveness and “half-baked pseudo-intellectualism”, and asked if he had written in the night before it was due, which Folken indeed had done without an edit. But, ironically, that paper was one of the documents that had been mentioned in his sudden and random inauguration as head of the Fate Alteration Project.
no subject
This is definately not roughtly a hundred words, but this isn't school, so booya.
Folken
Dilandau was convinced Folken drank like a pussy. He asked Folken if he had ever been “raging, fucking drunk” one meeting as he snatched the wine bottle from the center of the table after Folken had said that he was done after one glass. Folken said no, of course, and half-realized a precursor-thought along the nerves of his living hand wanting to touch the bruise-colored teardrop under his eye, before his conscious self kept his body stationary and calm.
He had been seventeen when that had happened. It was the first and only time he had ever been fully drunk, on a surreal night of crippling depression and rare sheer impulse, and he had awoken face-down in his bed, still fully clothed in his apprentice robes, with the urge to vomit and a hellish hangover. Upon falling back into his bed, somehow not waking his roommate with all of this, he realized that there was a gauze patch taped under his right eye, and that when he gingerly pressed the patch, his cheek was rather tender, and blood caught in the lower layers of the patch oozed onto his fingertip.
He was too scared to remove the patch for a good hour, and when he finally did, he had to steady himself on the sink when his knees almost gave out.
When he was in better moods he regretted the tattoo, convinced it was far over-the-top, tacky, and melodramatic, but then again, he had gotten his ears pierced when he was rock-sober, and had started spiking his hair into a punkish mullet and wearing bruise-colored eyeliner soon after, and had never stopped since. He wasn’t sure, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, if this change would have happened independent of getting that damn tattoo. Though, it was only a supplementary inspiration in his final-year thesis paper in psychology regarding natural physical appearance and the adulteration thereof, and its effect on psychaeobehavorial paradoxes. The main inspiration of that had been his arm and the rigorous analysis of his self-image following that really didn’t help his depression, despite its brilliance and clarity.
He had analyzed the changes in the microcosmic context of the chain leading from the loss of his arm, and had then spent half of the paper arguing that there was no such thing as a “microcosm”, since all things are connected in an infinitely complex chain of physiochemical movement and causal reaction. He had furthermore concluded that both independent analysis of each conscious alteration to his appearance both hinged upon his past and could only be analyzed within the context of themselves as an infinitely small point in time.
The teacher had failed his paper for lack of clarity and cohesiveness and “half-baked pseudo-intellectualism”, and asked if he had written in the night before it was due, which Folken indeed had done without an edit. But, ironically, that paper was one of the documents that had been mentioned in his sudden and random inauguration as head of the Fate Alteration Project.