Information
Eater has a minion!
Memento the Dahllie
Memento the Dahllie
Eater
Legacy Name: Eater
The Graveyard Mahar
Owner:
Age: 8 years, 2 months, 3 weeks
Born: January 7th, 2016
Adopted: 8 years, 2 months, 3 weeks ago
Adopted: January 7th, 2016
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 11
- HP: 11/11
- Intelligence: 2
- Books Read: 2
- Food Eaten: 1975
- Job: Unemployed
Moving slowly through the crowd of black, the boy looked down into the grave of the man who's funeral was taking place. All around him the boy saw and felt love, and sorrow, and a deep longing for the man's life to somehow be returned to him. Those who were attending felt anguish now, yes, but soon the funeral would end, and as each member of family and friends left to meet at a different location later, he would follow them. And when they rejoined together, they would embrace each other fondly and would tell stories about this man whose name the boy didn't know or care about.
The invisible boy - for no one seemed to notice his presence - glowered sadly to himself, remembering his own life and how no one had thought to celebrate his accomplishments. His father had been an alcoholic, his mother a cowering woman too afraid of the man's fist to willingly take it herself. And so from the time the boy was old enough to get in his father's way, he had become a target. "You're worthless, boy! Worthless! You don't work, you don't clean, you don't help, all you do is eat, eat, eat!"
And that's how it was that he'd been sent to the workhouse when he was eight. Battered, bruised, at first he had enjoyed the chance to get away from home. The men in charge of keeping the children working were not kind, no - no one could ever call them that. But so long as you did as you were told and as quickly as you could, you never got the whip too often.
After his first week of working, he learned that the money he earned was given directly to his father and would never touch his own hands. And his father, believing he was the workhouse's responsibility while he was there, told his mother that she wasn't to waste food by packing him a meal. And so she watched as her son slowly wasted away before her, never brave enough to show him affection or to help him in any way lest her husband's wrath once again be turned on her. Even as he lay dead in the street after having been hit by a cart, filthy and bruised and skinny as he was, no one was there to help him. When no one claimed him or came looking for him by the end of the day, he had been given the plainest of plots in a neglected graveyard, no tombstone or visitors or love given to him.
He wondered, centuries later, if that was why he haunted this graveyard. If he'd had his choice he would have moved into the void by now, or at least found a more lively place to spend his time. A boy of fourteen could find many more interesting things to do, even if he didn't have a physical body. But as he opened his mouth and took a deep breath in, he felt some of his pain go away, and he knew - as he had learned so long ago - that he was taking in the love and happiest memories of those around him. The pureness of their caring fed him, kept him.. alive? Perhaps not alive. But it gave him a reason to keep existing. He would go to their wake, and he would feel as if he was awake and alive and warm as he fed on the emotions he never experienced in his living years.
Running fingers through his hair in a sign of impatience, the boy once again toyed with the thought that his father had been right when he was alive. He wasn't right at the time, of course, but his words had turned out to be prophetic nevertheless. The boy whose name did not matter in life, and therefore he did not carry it with him into death, was an Eater.
|| Writing by Lugosi ||
The invisible boy - for no one seemed to notice his presence - glowered sadly to himself, remembering his own life and how no one had thought to celebrate his accomplishments. His father had been an alcoholic, his mother a cowering woman too afraid of the man's fist to willingly take it herself. And so from the time the boy was old enough to get in his father's way, he had become a target. "You're worthless, boy! Worthless! You don't work, you don't clean, you don't help, all you do is eat, eat, eat!"
And that's how it was that he'd been sent to the workhouse when he was eight. Battered, bruised, at first he had enjoyed the chance to get away from home. The men in charge of keeping the children working were not kind, no - no one could ever call them that. But so long as you did as you were told and as quickly as you could, you never got the whip too often.
After his first week of working, he learned that the money he earned was given directly to his father and would never touch his own hands. And his father, believing he was the workhouse's responsibility while he was there, told his mother that she wasn't to waste food by packing him a meal. And so she watched as her son slowly wasted away before her, never brave enough to show him affection or to help him in any way lest her husband's wrath once again be turned on her. Even as he lay dead in the street after having been hit by a cart, filthy and bruised and skinny as he was, no one was there to help him. When no one claimed him or came looking for him by the end of the day, he had been given the plainest of plots in a neglected graveyard, no tombstone or visitors or love given to him.
He wondered, centuries later, if that was why he haunted this graveyard. If he'd had his choice he would have moved into the void by now, or at least found a more lively place to spend his time. A boy of fourteen could find many more interesting things to do, even if he didn't have a physical body. But as he opened his mouth and took a deep breath in, he felt some of his pain go away, and he knew - as he had learned so long ago - that he was taking in the love and happiest memories of those around him. The pureness of their caring fed him, kept him.. alive? Perhaps not alive. But it gave him a reason to keep existing. He would go to their wake, and he would feel as if he was awake and alive and warm as he fed on the emotions he never experienced in his living years.
Running fingers through his hair in a sign of impatience, the boy once again toyed with the thought that his father had been right when he was alive. He wasn't right at the time, of course, but his words had turned out to be prophetic nevertheless. The boy whose name did not matter in life, and therefore he did not carry it with him into death, was an Eater.
|| Writing by Lugosi ||
Pet Treasure
Mothers Day Memorial Frame
Mothers Day Child Hand Plaster
Childs Turkey Footprint
Childs Valentine
Truck
Bloodclot Zombear Plushie
Bloody Zombie Foot
Blood Bubble Gum
Graveyard Nail Bat
Graveyard Daruma Doll
Bag of Graveyard Chocolates
Toy Chibi Graveyard Potion
Graveyard Bonbon
Ghastly Gruesome Graveyard Ghost Stories
Graveyard Fruit
Dillema Corrupted Soul
Dirty Socks
False Graveyard Mahar Eyes
Here Lies...
Well-Used Trousers