like the sea, constantly changing from calm to ill.
She would be right to think that he was primarily a selfish thinker. Rapscallion was only not thinking about himself in a technical way when he was forced to with others around. His mind was working overtime with all the commotion between the Gates, children, and newcomers. He is a shadow-dweller for the most part, you wouldn't find him venturing out to explore the great wide open; he knows he's most comfortable here. Most do not know that two years ago he usurped the Tundra throne, only to lose interest and venture off. Rapscallion is capable, he simply cannot be bothered if he doesn't want to be.
"Imagine that 'mouthful' being a persistent, repetitive motion from the time you see the veins in your eyelids to the time you see spots closing them to rest," he says, even then being odd in his response. Nothing is simple in his mind, nothing is 'right' enough - it could always be better, more succinct. "No, I do not know understand what you're saying. I understand the terminology and the meaning but I have never felt those things - it is not tangible feat. You can only feel tangible things, Wichita," he says, cooly and with precise - his teeth crisply saying her name. "I think that ultimately to give your life would imply you have selfish motivator," he replies while cocks his left back leg, which means quite a lot for Rapscallion - he is always at full attention, tense, adrenaline motivated. She keeps mentioning feeling and he feels almost ignorant because either it's a cruel joke or she's a little visually impaired. "Well, I feel the slight breeze from the downwind of the mountain range, I can feel you are close in proximity; sense you, taste you even. I can feel the army training, their march a constant rhythm reverberating on the ground. Now you know," he says matter of factly, though somehow he thinks this was not the answer she was looking for.
It is so hard to be a normal part of society when you're emotionally stunted.
.r a p s c a l l i o n.