Username:
IlluminatiConfirmed
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Kalon Name:
Huxley
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Name Meaning:
From Hugh's meadow/Inhospitable place
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Kalon Gender:
Male
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Art:
(Decided to make a standalone piece for the winner, so it can be used for a wider range of characters ^^)
-
Extras
one & two: using both's 500 words to write one thing!
When he was younger, Huxley had trouble sleeping during the worst nights. When the wind rattled the wooden roofs and made the houses shake, with our without rain. He feared the wind would take him up to the clouds, and that he would never come back.
Tears always threatened to spill out, but he told himself he would never cry, no matter how bad he felt. It made his mother too sad.
He wished those days were few, but it seemed that his town only knew about rain and wind, at least for as long as he had been alive. Summers used to be sunny, his mother told him, filled with bright lights and a burning heat. Flowers would sway softly during spring, just like leaves in autumn. And on winter, the snow would settle down on everything.
But years ago, the wind took everything away. Clouds constantly rolled in, covering up the sun rays. Flowers and grass were ripped from the ground, straight from their roots. Trees were stripped off leaves even if it wasn't fall yet. And snow would fly off in violent blizzards, never staying put. And Huxley never had seen otherwise.
Every now and then, pieces of buildings and animals would be taken off by a strong gust. The townsfolk had long ago given up setting up flags and wooden signs to warn about the weather.
Some even left. And some came back, telling stories of wonderful seasons just a few miles away.
And as Huxley got older, he wanted to see them too.
He took the job of delivering a letter to another town as soon as he was old enough to be trusted with a horse. People around there knew him as helpful, and his mother didn't object much to him leaving. It would be a week-long trip, at most.
According to the month, it should've been spring. Huxley intented to bring colorful flowers back with him.
As the young black horse -which he named Rusted- he rode trotted away from town, he shot one glance back. To grey skies and swaying trees behind.
The storm was very spread out. He saw no sun on the other town. Only worried looks to the sky, which had remained as streaked and grey as it was back at his home.
There, too, the winds reigned. He saw flowers fly up in the air, dust from the road picking up. However, it wasn't as strong. Just as it was barely starting up.
Huxley decided to go back immediately after finishing his work, holding dearly onto some flowers he could save. No use in staying in during a bad season.
That was plentiful at home.
His mother arranged the flowers as she told him about the wonderful days there had been.
Appearently the storm had moved on while he was gone, allowing plants to bloom for a short while. Huxley told her that he knew, he had seen it over in the other town. Though, judging by the again grey skies, the storm was coming back.
He had just missed it.
Every time he went to another town, it followed him.
Winds and clouds tailed behind him and his horse, howling no matter where he was.
And they were back at hoke with him, over and over.
His mother kept saying he just unlucky to be missing the good seasons. His father avoided looking at him, and never mentioned anything about it.
But others sent him far away. They would call him when they needed someone to make a long journey. Weeks or months at the time. They never asked for small favors anymore, nor short trips. Sometimes just so he could get go riding on Rusted, a black horse as old as him, the only equine in town that didn't seem to mind the winds at all. And they would go on through miles and miles, grinning while facing the wind. At times even whistling or singing, the wind dragging on the sounds as if it was its only purpose. As if it was made for him.
And he refused to think about it. He would just enjoy the breeze.
Never spilling tears while alone. Not even when he knew his mother wouldn't knew about it.
His mother loved flowers. He had heard from her that his father had asked her out amongst a storm of flowers in a windy spring, Huxley always thought that was a weird way of describing it, but understood why she liked them. Perhaps he'd like that too, as he had started taking some comfort in the breezes as he grew up.
One day, he wanted his mother to see flowers again. All the colors and scents she talked about for hours and hours. He wanted her to smile at them under bright sunlight, for her to be not sad.
And that very afternoon, the townsfolk saw as a whistling rider taking the wind with him.
Leaving to never to come back.
[830/1000]
three: art
IlluminatiConfirmed
-
Kalon Name:
Huxley
-
Name Meaning:
From Hugh's meadow/Inhospitable place
-
Kalon Gender:
Male
-
Art:
(Decided to make a standalone piece for the winner, so it can be used for a wider range of characters ^^)
-
Extras
one & two: using both's 500 words to write one thing!
When he was younger, Huxley had trouble sleeping during the worst nights. When the wind rattled the wooden roofs and made the houses shake, with our without rain. He feared the wind would take him up to the clouds, and that he would never come back.
Tears always threatened to spill out, but he told himself he would never cry, no matter how bad he felt. It made his mother too sad.
He wished those days were few, but it seemed that his town only knew about rain and wind, at least for as long as he had been alive. Summers used to be sunny, his mother told him, filled with bright lights and a burning heat. Flowers would sway softly during spring, just like leaves in autumn. And on winter, the snow would settle down on everything.
But years ago, the wind took everything away. Clouds constantly rolled in, covering up the sun rays. Flowers and grass were ripped from the ground, straight from their roots. Trees were stripped off leaves even if it wasn't fall yet. And snow would fly off in violent blizzards, never staying put. And Huxley never had seen otherwise.
Every now and then, pieces of buildings and animals would be taken off by a strong gust. The townsfolk had long ago given up setting up flags and wooden signs to warn about the weather.
Some even left. And some came back, telling stories of wonderful seasons just a few miles away.
And as Huxley got older, he wanted to see them too.
He took the job of delivering a letter to another town as soon as he was old enough to be trusted with a horse. People around there knew him as helpful, and his mother didn't object much to him leaving. It would be a week-long trip, at most.
According to the month, it should've been spring. Huxley intented to bring colorful flowers back with him.
As the young black horse -which he named Rusted- he rode trotted away from town, he shot one glance back. To grey skies and swaying trees behind.
The storm was very spread out. He saw no sun on the other town. Only worried looks to the sky, which had remained as streaked and grey as it was back at his home.
There, too, the winds reigned. He saw flowers fly up in the air, dust from the road picking up. However, it wasn't as strong. Just as it was barely starting up.
Huxley decided to go back immediately after finishing his work, holding dearly onto some flowers he could save. No use in staying in during a bad season.
That was plentiful at home.
His mother arranged the flowers as she told him about the wonderful days there had been.
Appearently the storm had moved on while he was gone, allowing plants to bloom for a short while. Huxley told her that he knew, he had seen it over in the other town. Though, judging by the again grey skies, the storm was coming back.
He had just missed it.
Every time he went to another town, it followed him.
Winds and clouds tailed behind him and his horse, howling no matter where he was.
And they were back at hoke with him, over and over.
His mother kept saying he just unlucky to be missing the good seasons. His father avoided looking at him, and never mentioned anything about it.
But others sent him far away. They would call him when they needed someone to make a long journey. Weeks or months at the time. They never asked for small favors anymore, nor short trips. Sometimes just so he could get go riding on Rusted, a black horse as old as him, the only equine in town that didn't seem to mind the winds at all. And they would go on through miles and miles, grinning while facing the wind. At times even whistling or singing, the wind dragging on the sounds as if it was its only purpose. As if it was made for him.
And he refused to think about it. He would just enjoy the breeze.
Never spilling tears while alone. Not even when he knew his mother wouldn't knew about it.
His mother loved flowers. He had heard from her that his father had asked her out amongst a storm of flowers in a windy spring, Huxley always thought that was a weird way of describing it, but understood why she liked them. Perhaps he'd like that too, as he had started taking some comfort in the breezes as he grew up.
One day, he wanted his mother to see flowers again. All the colors and scents she talked about for hours and hours. He wanted her to smile at them under bright sunlight, for her to be not sad.
And that very afternoon, the townsfolk saw as a whistling rider taking the wind with him.
Leaving to never to come back.
[830/1000]
three: art
