Volk hated the dumbness that took its place in the fold of the mind he was otherwise proud over. Always this - without footing, no thought. This time he'd been stuck on her. Little sister, other genetics, which meant blue eyes could hold azure strands, like heaven's threads were undone a little from her irises, and plunged into the night of his. Prettiest little sister, painted in the bad that feral boys do. He wondered if it would be enough, to lock her behind the door that was their world. Little sibling of his, growing up in tandem, but living such different lives when they weren't together. Her with the sand - children always sleep with sand, and adults sleep with their problems - and him with mother. It was a multi-colored scene assembling their history, pulled over his vision when all he really wanted to see was her.<br/><br/>Chris's comparatively flimsy arms didn't carry him long enough for the air to return from Collin's shouldering. Then the ground. It was a strange mixture of itself first, different part in other roiling shadows. Why does it always take the body a few moments to realize it is being disassembled? Clear shots to his sides that rocked his hands to flail, unable to come back and cover. Then circles of numbness to underline the damage. A many times recanted gospel, right there, in the house of his heart. That's where the steel toes wanted at, a grand introduction to the oldest muscle. It looked like kicking, but in essence it was digging. Volk had no active part in it first, other than to count the demises.<br/><br/>Eventually, when he'd had enough time to think inside this new universe of rattling calcium pillars and foaming oxygen chambers, he found initiative, and caught the laced up leather ankles between his thumb and all his fingers to slow down the rest of the malicious, heavy pendulum swings. It frustrated Collin greatly, and he started from further back. A natural lack of imagination, even though he had such a propensity for ravage. And Chris, who'd embraced him, was trying with punches from above. Little men taking back small pride are troublesome. Volk couldn't afford to care, and that was his sole luxury laying down, eating their wrath.<br/><br/>The first time Collin had tried at him, they'd been Reno's size. Even then Collin was a block. Whore mother and candy lunch, the Wicker boy had been on his way of becoming the spider of a man with his many legs that girls liked to be wrapped in. He'd seen it in the furious, crying Collin, who came at him like a bull. Twisting away wasn't hard, and then pulling hair and scratching. It was the worse kind of victory between brothers, but the boy raised on meat from the woods still had to suffocate his own anger and ask Volk to stop. It lead into the tentative peace and denial that losers tend to hold on to, which lasted a few years, until it was relevant to crown a new king.<br/><br/>Collin hadn't yet become the current specimen of what Volk was sure amounted to two men's body weight, but still a passable human wall. Wicker was encouraged by whatever was being passed around out in a clearing, around their little fires, and reminded Collin while he was face-to-neck with any willing Amanda. He knew the bigger boy was always carrying that play-ground scuffle around, and honestly thought it would buy great sensation, being beaten down in front of anyone. Volk simply didn't think it would cost him, thrashed on the forest plain, because he'd fucked Miranda hadn't he, while Jonas was out making money for her. His adrenal glans were white-tent preachers, and his blood was every positive belief. Collin had the momentum to break the famous limbs of the Burning Bear Co. High hero, but Volk decided to dance away best he could, and found that he could read the impulses of his harbinger.<br/><br/>After that, it he only picked where to put his knuckles and sole-prints, until Collin was too affected to run anymore. And a stand-still giant is just another way of saying slow prey. They were all laughing in the end, and Collin had to laugh too, under Volk Wicker, the defending wolf ruler and owner of any cotton covered, damply rendered loot. It was primal and unfair, and Collin saw it as such in the orange shreds of their poorly contained but miraculously stoic infernos.<br/><br/>Volk thought of that, and how these brutal but tiring legs and their boots were charged with such venomous nostalgia. He wondered if it would matter, when he'd be found mangled and quiet and whatever temperature the morning was, that he'd taken Collin twice, while this was the bigger brute's only victory. It seemed simple enough. That end wasn't objectionable in any light he could think of at first, not down here, where all the fractures and insides tastes were coming up. But he wouldn't be alone here, trading flavor with the grass, he'd have her, just like she'd have that tiger. A sleeping friend. And that wasn't quaint.<br/><br/>But every time he tried to wrench Chris off, Collin would come from the side with those slaying, blunt size neanderthals, and take away precious air and life. He'd only packaged Reno for them if he couldn't do more. So he tried, but every attempt was of course as useless as anything anyone half dead does toward his vertical aggressors. He felt his cornerstone, the sacred anger that had warmed him under bridges, go the way of those amateur fires in the clearing when the crowd left for their houses and each other's tongues. He was only Reno's Volk then, with enough strength to spin her, but not enough vicious to rattle big, simple males, running from their father's destinies.<br/><br/>Then there were more sounds somewhere. He knew it. Something to break off the march inside his own ears. And more light, too. Something flared with the electrically awakened dawn, and suddenly Chris was tossed off and the wind of gasoline and stale oils was welcomed to the blood in Volk's nostrils. He rolled his eyes instead of rejoicing, but when the gravel put little cuts on his face in their flight and the next kick didn't come, he could look up at a fuming, confident Collin. Volk smiled miserably at little sister. This was perhaps the best he would have let her do. With the new angle of Jonas's truck, she should even be able to maneuver out of here. There were not enough islands in his drowning lungs to tell her, and little sister was stupid, birds don't have big brains, so she wouldn't go herself, tethered to him even if he'd left her here at the bottom for too long. She didn't care that he was an anchor, when she needed flotation.<br/><br/>There was no choice in the next course of action, and Volk hated every fold of his miserable physicality when he rolled onto his stomach to execute. Standing was an impossible ordeal, but it was better than watching partially blind while they had their celebration on her bare corpse. Collin didn't notice or didn't care, and Volk was eager to be ignored in the dust that stuck to all the stains they'd dressed him in. His arms where still in place, so he swung one. He lost blood from ripped lips in something he meant to be mockery when he felt the parcel of Collin cock and Collin sack welcome his surging knuckles.<br/><br/>Chris, beautiful, inexperienced, foul-formed Chris jumped forward, and Volk could simply cock his elbow back to rock his bone bowl and make him one of her gummy worms on the grass bed. Collin kneeled with his hands crossing exactly where Volk had visited him. Those dark eyes grew when the blooded fist came back for his face. Wicker had no delusion that his power should be enough to fell the Burning Bear tyrant, but he still grabbed that light hair and hammered into the gash left by the stone at the treeline, where they'd had their short, deceitful heart-to-heart.<br/><br/>Eventually, for some reason or the other, Collin did grunt, slumped over. He fell back intentionally and crawled away from the scarecrow of blood strings that they'd made. His novice to walking suggested his first fainting spell had helped Volk quake his spine again. And Wicker was an old phantom to him, so this much gusto after all the deliberate pillage was enough to scare the primal out of the meaty child. He gargled something ancient and frustrated, but started lugging limp friends into the battle scared Blazer with great difficulty. Volk could only stand there, hand on Reno's tail light, until the unwelcome, poorly amalgamated hunk of red painted steel was out of their drive way.<br/><br/>Volk was a dead something circling her truck. Perhaps he wasn't as poorly abused. He thought better of it when he screamed as he pulled the door open. "I told you to..." he started before a crimson snake climbed out of his throat and splattered his intercepting forearm in soaked coughs. "t-to stay." His teeth were drowned in heart's color. He pulled her to him and locked her to his grimy chest. The tanktop had been shredded in such a way that she kissed right above his heart, the skin. He was blind, staring at nothing, with his chin in her hair. "You okay, Ren?" He hoped she didn't mind too much when more black blood crawled out his lip and curtained her back.<br/><br/>He stayed on his legs until the house, and repeated his intent on staying awake between fantastical loss of liquid through ugly, rattling fits from throat and lungs. "The tub." he begged as he hung on her. Adamant brothers in all stages of coagulation can be convincing. In the past, he'd saved her from goblin dragons at great cost, too, and she'd helped him to their sickbay a little like this. He'd not told her, but he'd taken most of his weight with his own legs, then.<br/><br/>He'd be grateful for the bathroom lights and his red product complimenting the porcelain vat. Showerhead on, he'd insist, pretty battered sea-man with crimson serpent tail rolling around the drain, and cut up hand around her wrist if she meant to leave. If she wondered if he'd live, there'd be no answer in his hacking, wilting cadence. He was stubborn with a deathlier battle tonight, but even childhood dreams can fail when they're not properly calibrated, and connected and transferred to a real-life body, which is not compatible with whimsy and eternal life.