[center][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjg4LjBjNTUwNi5WRkpQUncsLC4w/diediedie.regular.png[/img][/center]
[hr]
The fact that Trog was distressed was no secret, in fact there were few people more plain with their feelings in the whole room as Old Man Fritz lay on his deathbed. It was just so wrong to see the once strong and capable man reduced to... [i]this[/i] and it left Trog in a twitching mess, his hands clenching and unclenching wildly while he fidgeted towards the back of the group. He'd step a hole into the flooring at the rate he stepped side to side, the itch to move about stoked by his inability to move freely in the restricted space. It was all just happening too fast for Trog to keep up with, he had just gotten back from the blacksmith and still smeared with soot when Mary ushered everyone in. The tension in the air was suffocating as Trog strained to hear the Old Man through the sniffles of younglings and the growing din between his ears.

It was hard to hear the old man, and he was sure he missed most of it, but Trog didn't care as he saw the man who raised and protected him breath his last. It was too much for the boy to handle as he huffed once, breathed deep, and huffed again before violently shaking his head in a vain effort to calm himself down. Trog was going to lose it.

He stomped out of the room, his boots echoing loudly within the Orphanage as he pushed through anyone in his way. Faces blurred away as his eyes hyperfocused on the front door, memories of Old Man Fritz scolding him for causing a ruckus flooding into his head. The heavy doors were slammed open as he made a beeline for the back of the Orphanage, where the firewood was kept and chopped. With each stomp more and more memories can charging through, some were bad but most were good and with every single one the tightness in his chest worsened. Naturally his first solution was to thump it away with a meaty fist and, when that endeavor yielded few results, switched to a grief and frustration filled whine.

Finally, in what felt like forever, Trog rounded the corner and found himself in face to face with a familiar sight, the chopping block. Old Man Fritz' words came flooding in again, repeating the same phrase to himself he always did when he needed to blow off some steam.

[i][b]"Listen, Trog, I can't have you throwing another tantrum like that again. Most of the other kids aren't as strong as you are and if you throw your weight around casually you will hurt them. Just, whenever you get that itch I want you to come back here and pour all that anger onto these logs. Do you understand?"[/b][/i]

Trog shook his head once again, more violently this time, as he tried to physically expel the memories from his skull. With quick, practiced movements he set up a log and grabbed the axe, the weathered wood finding familiarity in his hands. With a single swing he split the log in two as he channeled all his fury into blow. Then he set up another log and repeated the process, more fury in this blow than the last. Then again, and again, and again, each blow more powerful and spiteful. It was the [i]Logs[/i] fault that Old Man Fritz was dead and Trog was going to make them pay. On the seventh log the support stump couldn't handle it and split along with the log set utop it, an act that finally set him off. A crimson red inferno burst forth from Trog's eye sockets as his anger got the better of him and he let out a loud, bestial howl as he struck at the pile of logs. The blow set them scattering across the ground, the impact freeing them of their stack and costing Trog his grip on the axe. It was of little consequence as he began to dig into the pile, grabbing whole logs and chucking them behind him as if he was digging into the chest of a massive beast.

Slowly he came back to reality, his savage grunts and roars becoming replaced by near silent keens and sniffles as his fury was swallowed by grief. Trog knew somewhere in that lizard brain of his that none of this was going to bring the Old Man back, and that tore his heart to pieces. He tucked into himself, large arms pulling his knees close to his chest and his head downcast, staring halfhearted daggers at the pile of firewood he had made. His silence was only punctuated by the occasional sniffle, tears streaking through his soot covered face as smoke danced away from his eyes.