KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
The fist connected with his jaw in a crack that resounded through his head. A knee followed and connected with his gut. Though he tightened the abs it still knocked the wind out of him and made the tall youth stagger, and from that on it was basically over. Big though he was, Korbin was still only a whelp among full grown wolves here. The world was a blur of light and shadow, of warmth from blazing fires, from burning liquour, from his own blood as it poured from his nose and split lip. It faded, slipped away along with his consciousness as fists and feet kept pummeling his teetering frame... and then brought back into sharp clarity when strong hands heaved him up under the elbows and he was thrown bodily out through the door. A roar of laughter followed as he tumbled along the ground, a wet rag too drunk to even really stand properly. His coat was flung out after him, and landed in the snow a few feet away. Crawling on hands and knees towards it, he was already shivering in the bitter cold by the time he reached it, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking even after he'd pulled it on.
The sound of boots crunching in the snow made him look up sharply, ready to scrabble back if someone had come for more. But it was just the old barman, grizzled and weatherbeaten. He hunched down before the young man, and pressed a bottle into his hands.
"Not as I dunno why, lad, but there's limits, even fer me. Ye dun brawl in my place. Ye pay fair, or ye dun drink. Yer not settin foot inside until ye cleared yer debt, and I dun see yer face unless it's te pay it off. An tha's final." With a shovel-sized hand the old man clapped Korbin on the shoulder and stood. There was much shaking of heads and muttering from the leering crowd, but soon the door closed and the noise was cut off abruptly.
Korbin was left huddled on the street outside. Alone. It was dark and, since this was Halo, fucking cold. Fresh blood kept runneling into his mouth, and though he spat it out into the snow, it kept coming back.
A good analogy for something, no doubt, but he couldn't think of what it compared to.
Groaning softly from pain, he unfolded his long limbs and pushed himself up on his feet. His head was pounding, the world a caleidoscope of light and dark, of shadows and firelight and the distant stars somewhere high above. Safrin must be very disappointed by what she saw, should she glance down about now. So much for talking about his feelings. So much for following her instructions. The seashell she had given him still sat in a pocket, and he kept turning it between numb fingers as he staggered off, bottle in one hand, down some dark alley. Pausing every once in a while to throw up; all liquid, all bile and booze. It was the only thing he consumed these days, and it was ironic how he wasn't even able to keep hold of the booze.
Not quite clear on where he was going, Korbin walked on blindly. He just vaguely knew that he would need to get inside. Doubtlessly, he was smearing blood onto that shell as he fumbled with it. But it seemed just another good analogy. He was supposed to color it, right? Nothing said it shouldn't be with his own damn blood and guts.
He wasn't even angry. Hadn't been, even when he got involved in that argument. Hadn't felt anything when he let the first fist fly, and felt nothing as he was soundly beaten. Even now, when his eye was starting to swell shut and he casually had to consider if the nose had been broken, the dull throb of pain was all that reached him, over the dull roar of alcohol buzzing through his ears. Or bloodstream. Or wherever the fuck it went.
Korbin's staggered path led him from the center of Snowcloak and towards the outer sections of the town. The wall loomed like a pale shadow in the distance, but all around him was nothing but houses, lodges, sheds and barns. It gave him an idea.
Minutes later, he stood outside a shed and struggled to pick the lock on the door. But either it had rusted or was frozen solid, because his picks kept breaking and he didn't have that many. Who even locked their sheds in the Citadel? Damned invasion attempt was making everyone edgy. Another of the thin metal pieces bent out of shape and Korbin swore as he tossed it into the snow. Digging through his pockets, he found the last one and tried one last time, fumbling and slow with fingers that shivered and grew numb from the biting cold.
The sound of boots crunching in the snow made him look up sharply, ready to scrabble back if someone had come for more. But it was just the old barman, grizzled and weatherbeaten. He hunched down before the young man, and pressed a bottle into his hands.
"Not as I dunno why, lad, but there's limits, even fer me. Ye dun brawl in my place. Ye pay fair, or ye dun drink. Yer not settin foot inside until ye cleared yer debt, and I dun see yer face unless it's te pay it off. An tha's final." With a shovel-sized hand the old man clapped Korbin on the shoulder and stood. There was much shaking of heads and muttering from the leering crowd, but soon the door closed and the noise was cut off abruptly.
Korbin was left huddled on the street outside. Alone. It was dark and, since this was Halo, fucking cold. Fresh blood kept runneling into his mouth, and though he spat it out into the snow, it kept coming back.
A good analogy for something, no doubt, but he couldn't think of what it compared to.
Groaning softly from pain, he unfolded his long limbs and pushed himself up on his feet. His head was pounding, the world a caleidoscope of light and dark, of shadows and firelight and the distant stars somewhere high above. Safrin must be very disappointed by what she saw, should she glance down about now. So much for talking about his feelings. So much for following her instructions. The seashell she had given him still sat in a pocket, and he kept turning it between numb fingers as he staggered off, bottle in one hand, down some dark alley. Pausing every once in a while to throw up; all liquid, all bile and booze. It was the only thing he consumed these days, and it was ironic how he wasn't even able to keep hold of the booze.
Not quite clear on where he was going, Korbin walked on blindly. He just vaguely knew that he would need to get inside. Doubtlessly, he was smearing blood onto that shell as he fumbled with it. But it seemed just another good analogy. He was supposed to color it, right? Nothing said it shouldn't be with his own damn blood and guts.
He wasn't even angry. Hadn't been, even when he got involved in that argument. Hadn't felt anything when he let the first fist fly, and felt nothing as he was soundly beaten. Even now, when his eye was starting to swell shut and he casually had to consider if the nose had been broken, the dull throb of pain was all that reached him, over the dull roar of alcohol buzzing through his ears. Or bloodstream. Or wherever the fuck it went.
Korbin's staggered path led him from the center of Snowcloak and towards the outer sections of the town. The wall loomed like a pale shadow in the distance, but all around him was nothing but houses, lodges, sheds and barns. It gave him an idea.
Minutes later, he stood outside a shed and struggled to pick the lock on the door. But either it had rusted or was frozen solid, because his picks kept breaking and he didn't have that many. Who even locked their sheds in the Citadel? Damned invasion attempt was making everyone edgy. Another of the thin metal pieces bent out of shape and Korbin swore as he tossed it into the snow. Digging through his pockets, he found the last one and tried one last time, fumbling and slow with fingers that shivered and grew numb from the biting cold.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
