Tinyfolk's Tinkerings Picture

You're no more than your nerve.

That's what m'father told me. And for a time, I believed him. After all, when you're stacked short the word of the tall is the gospel, sung from on high by the scions of the past.

Then I learned a bit. To build. To break. And old double-wording. 'fraid it didn't help m'outlook too much.
When I became a fighting man, growing up in the dusk before the wartime, I figured the old words held less ground than they used to. I was a man, so I thought. Grown big enough to make his way.

You're no more than the guy next to you.

I was fixin' to get cocky and enjoy m'youth. But then a political powder keg between two neighboring nations found it's spark and I was off to war.

We were born from the earth. We were raised by it. In any waking hours we would stand upon it. And in any silent hours we would lay upon it. When we took one step out from a crumbling stone wall and caught a bolt of concentrated magic energy right between the eyes...

We would return to it.

But we had each other. Droves of brownie boys fixin' to come home heroes.

But, y'know.

Any seasoned individual could reckon how it ended. And I came out wary. With a new mix of words to shape my life.

You're no more.

When I had figured it out for the time of third, all I could do was stare into nothing and call it a void.

Our actions were inconsequential. Our feelings moot. Our gestures of good will mere firings of neurons and streams of chemicals. I took up chemistry around that time.

I wondered how grand the reaction would be if I found the bottom of a bottle.

For the void followed me. Or, at least, that's how I figured it was. I might have kept it on a leash and drug it with me. But whenever I chose to give it a glance, there was only one way to cope.

Let's just say the bottle consumed me as much as I consumed it.

For a while, at least.

I was lucid long enough to come back home and see an old friend off. Didn't leave much. There wasn't much to leave. 'cept some gold pieces, dusty farmland that just got a little smaller, and an old workman's hat.

I wanted to be sober enough see him off. Guess that's what did it.

You're no more than your steel.

With m'last friend sitting tight in the farmland I decided there wasn't much left for me. Not in this hollow piece 'a soil I had once called home.

Luckily I still had my trusty hunk of iron on a stick and a mind lucid enough to leave over the horizon. I always wondered what was out there. Past where the war took me. Past the walls of these dying cities.

Best to be alone.

As long as I have my merry companion.

As long as I have my steel.

My closest, dearest companion.

We could argue those years were scientific ventures. Bouts of widespread discovery and introspective mirth. But the deception just don't hold.

I was wandering.

Losing myself. Again. But this time in the wilds.

'spose I was just waitin'.

I know. How poetic. Profound. Sappy is a northern pine on a cool morning. With all those analogies and turns a' phrase. This old fart shootin' his mouth off all vague like. Rambling like a transient coot.

'spose there's still a point to this. 'spose I found it in another philosophy.

You're no more than what you do.

Prop yourself up against whatever tome you might like. School of thought. Creed of honor. Makes no difference.

It's what you do.

And who you do it with.

And so and so forth or whatever I've been ramblin' for about four minutes now and none of ya'll seem keen on stoppin' me...

Question: What is this?

Answer: I don't fuckin' know.

Let's just say after getting the tablet I lost myself in cheap sketches and little contextual involvement. And so far all my ideas have been festering under the weight of bad tumblr sketches and Lilith's butt.

Like, a lot of Lilith's butt.

Like, a lot a lot a lot.

So here's the deal.

The gang is striking a pose similar to a Cowboy Bebop promo poster.

The Outsider is talking about life because my character writing is rusty as fuck.

I also haven't been self-deprecating in a while. Or self aware of the fact. Or meta about that. So...

Enjoy yet another meager attempt to get back into my lazy styles of working with some barely relevant clumsy writing like always that may or may not be good I don't know it's late I'm done goodnight moon
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