Information
William Wallace
Legacy Name: William Wallace
The
Graveyard MontreOwner:
GentlemanAge: 13 years, 11 months, 1 week
Born: May 24th, 2010
Adopted: 13 years, 11 months, 1 week ago
Adopted: May 24th, 2010
Statistics
- Level: 3
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 11
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 0/10
- Intelligence: 0
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
he's all of thirty-one, and he's only seventeen,
been a soldier for a thousand years
As soon as Wallace steps into battlefield, his body and mind become fully and completely directed to one single purpose: war.
He could be classified as the personification of military itself: moody as the climate over the trenches; harsh as the noise of German planes cutting through the air; filled with life and filled with death as any terrified soldier gripping to their guns.
A professional in all senses - for him, things such as saving a partner's life in battlefield is nothing but a trivial part of the main business and has nothing to do with affection or care. No, not at all. By saving the fellow's skin, he probably only didn't want to give the Germans a higher number of dead English soldiers to brag about.
Most of those soldiers didn't have much more to say about Wallace, actually. His own superiors have always refused to give him any compliments other than the obligatory "good job", for they found him barely bearable in every possible way, blaming it on:
a) his difficulty in obeying orders;
b) the pleasure he finds in doing things his own way, disregarding his superiors' orders;
c) the fact that "this kid is too proud for his own good";
d) his naturally headstrong, unfriendly personality, which most people would rather avoid.
we cannot linger on this stunted view
like rabid dogs of war
like rabid dogs of war
"Hell, I would kill for a cigar right now."
He was already killing, naturally, but he wasn't getting any cigars for it. "I would kill," he emphasized, rubbing his hand against his own dirty clothes, as if it would be enough to make that godforsaken cold go away. The trenches had never been comfortable, but at that very moment they were intolerable. There was snow on his hat, on his shoulders, covering the soldiers kneeling by his side and making all of them shake miserably. Lighting a cigar would be nearly impossible in that situation, but still, he found himself almost genuinely willing to kill for one.
He was already killing, naturally, but he wasn't getting any cigars for it. "I would kill," he emphasized, rubbing his hand against his own dirty clothes, as if it would be enough to make that godforsaken cold go away. The trenches had never been comfortable, but at that very moment they were intolerable. There was snow on his hat, on his shoulders, covering the soldiers kneeling by his side and making all of them shake miserably. Lighting a cigar would be nearly impossible in that situation, but still, he found himself almost genuinely willing to kill for one.
Back in 1916, Wallace possessed very few things, among them:
a) a long-time broken arm that never received any proper treatment, so he eventually learned to ignore it;
b) an old gun he'd hold on to dearly and polish almost every single night;
c) the capacity of holding said gun with one single hand, developed due to the circumstances and needs.
Wallace's life outside of the battlefield was hardly interesting at all. In fact, all of it could fit a single page in a book. Youngest son, with a name which had haunted him ever since his birth (William Wallace Wilson), fist fighter as a child, cadet as a teenager, cat lover for all his life, no family, no children, no wife, no other job outside of military. The soldiers used to joke that, as soon as the war reached an end, he would probably disintegrate.
In a way, they were right; the cold trenches were his home. It would be in the battlefield, constantly surrounded by the ghost of Death, where Wallace would genuinely feel alive. If there was one thing he loved as much as cats, cigarettes and cursing at the wind, this thing would be that little game of hide-and-seek he was always playing with Death. Every once in a while he could be seen shouting to no one, "not this time, you bastard!" before bursting into a rare, delighted laughter. Most of the time it happened, he had broken a leg, his nose, achieved a new scar or been considerably injured someway, somehow, but was still alive and relatively sane, for Death's frustration.
it's a whiteout of emotion
and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
Eventually, the war reached an end, and with it also ended:
a) any hopes Wallace still had of fully healing his broken arm again;
b) Wallace's little hide-and-seek game with Death.
In a winter morning, the survivors finally marched away from war and went back to their homes, and Wallace, well, Wallace did march as well, although he marched away from his home and back to war, sitting still in the same old truck as the other soldiers. Surviving the world always seemed far more complicated to him than to stay alive in between bombs and bullets, but not a word was said about it, and nobody noticed his eyes fixed on the field behind them as the truck went away.
If he disintegrated or not, those soldiers did not know, but no one ever heard a thing about William Wallace Wilson again.
At least not until 1939.
it's like moving in slow motion
and we're already too late if we arrive at all.
and we're already too late if we arrive at all.
code by Doctor
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