Hawlin — Roleplayer Guild

The seconds flashed by in an instant as the ache from the impact shot through me with every movement. The rounds had gone into the ceramic padding of the armor which I hoped was enough...hollowpoint...on contact, the bullet would have fragmented on anything harder than a frozen apple. The armor may be in shambles, but I had still been shot. Bruises, fresh ones at that...yes, that had to be it. It was already going numb from adrenaline, making it hard to be certain by sensation alone as my vision fogged. I knew this day would come, and I guess I was thankful that it wasn't the real thing...still...

I don't deserve to be of Achashverosh. I was foolish and should pay the price.
I don't deserve the clan. I outweighed my value the moment mother was taken...by it.
Life? I had almost sacrificed the group for the sake of...this...
...
...I don't deserve followers, friends...protectors. I will just get them killed. My place was back in the slum I crawled out of, making nearly toxic drugs to enhance the awareness of the night watch. I looked at the gun in my hand as I was lifted from the ground, my mittens with the detached index and thumb in their grip. And now, looting the dead? Stealing from other's kills?

Icarus incarnate.
I didn't even kill a single one of them...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Nuh!" Keepa grunted against the arms of the tiger as he was set down. The bunny tore his mask off, thumbing at the straps on his armor and reaching across the chest, shakily sighing at the lack of discovery of any wounds. Still, they seemed shaken and eager, as well as...disappointed...hurt, emotionally.
"I vowed to try!" He wheezed in English, barely manage to breath from the high-caliber rounds which shattered the vest which sagged from its now worthless state. With the last buckle it fell and Keepa proceeded to pick the ammo from the pockets to distract himself; the boy seemingly on the verge of tears as they stuffed what they could into their messenger bag before going about fixing the last strap on their otherwise sophisticated gas mask. "Its...keh--chheheheh..." He started, catching themselves as they went about replacing the mask over their face which they had done a poor job to hide from the group, convinced any respect for him that they may have had was now somewhere...else. Somewhere close to where his obscured tears lined the seal of his mask, now.
The failure was shocking, in Keepa's mind, so assured at one moment and being dragged off to live another day by his idol.
Could it get anymore embarrassing?

The thought crossed his mind of legends of old Japanese Seppuku, although he was still a set of hands in possession of an automatic firearm...maybe he could redeem himself, yet.
Maybe.

Testing the seal, Keepa trudged to the hatch, his hand on the wall to signify he was ready, though head lowered.

^
<3
If anything, I find it quaintly in mis-happenstance that the wielder of the aspect is lethargic; having gotten so bored of being expected to be jolly and involved constantly...or at least, this the personality assumption Keepa had foist upon them, for lack of any actual explanation, otherwise. Either way, whether or not its a means to tease him about his state or to reassure him of the joy his aspect is meant to bring, the name-based teasing exist.
I mean, wouldn't you? If "Santa" exists, wouldn't you cling to it, in the right mindset?

*shrug*
Maybe its just the unpredictability that is Keepa.
(Or maybe I'm making mountains of anthills. Idk, but I'm rolling with it)

Edit: May be rewinding that last bit of my post for the sake of character interaction.

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The Jaded

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