Basketball...or track....? He had read the words before, had heard them before, so why did they sound so d*** much like a foreign language? And what did any of that actually have to do with him, anyway? Try out... he thought he had heard or read the term somewhere before, but it had been a long day, a long week... had it been a week? Well however long it had been since he had run away from home, it had been longer than it was. That didn't even make sense. He was so tired, that was about all that did make sense at the moment. He was tired. And Hungry. Well, he was used to that. But... he didn't have a clue what to do about food, not here. He got up anyway, to try and figure it out, maybe, maybe even to ask, but tired won over hungry. As he stood his knees bent again, dropping him back to the bed, hard. The wooden frame of the bed made cracking sound, an ominous creaking, and then the left leg at the foot of the bed, where he had been sitting, broke, sending the bed, and him, pitching forward.
Tiamaris threw his hands out to shield himself from the fall. It hadn't been a choice, it had been instinct. And while that instinct might have saved him from a broken nose, the scales were also instinct, and they were far less welcome. What little he wore was left in shreds on the floor as the razor edged scales grew rapidly out of his skin, so that when he fell and rolled to his side, he was covered head to toe in what looked like ornate antique scale male armor. It covered any...ah... embarrassing and gender specific portions of his anatomy; like armor, it added bulk. It also added defensiveness. And weight. Unfortunately, he was not light to begin with, as the bed had demonstrated. There were small cracks in the floor under his mailed fingers. He pushed himself into a sitting position on the floor and eyed the bed.
His eyes were a deep shade of orange, and his roommate was all but forgotten. He had broken the bed. He broke the bed. What were they going to do to him? They took him in, and he broke the d*** bed. The brief, faint, hope that he had found a safe place, a place he could possibly stay... the thought of the books the boy had told him about, books he had never yet read... and all of it faded like smoke before a fan... Bleak was the best descriptor for his eyes. His face was ever a mask, save those eyes, a bleed, muted, orange.
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Tiamaris threw his hands out to shield himself from the fall. It hadn't been a choice, it had been instinct. And while that instinct might have saved him from a broken nose, the scales were also instinct, and they were far less welcome. What little he wore was left in shreds on the floor as the razor edged scales grew rapidly out of his skin, so that when he fell and rolled to his side, he was covered head to toe in what looked like ornate antique scale male armor. It covered any...ah... embarrassing and gender specific portions of his anatomy; like armor, it added bulk. It also added defensiveness. And weight. Unfortunately, he was not light to begin with, as the bed had demonstrated. There were small cracks in the floor under his mailed fingers. He pushed himself into a sitting position on the floor and eyed the bed.
His eyes were a deep shade of orange, and his roommate was all but forgotten. He had broken the bed. He broke the bed. What were they going to do to him? They took him in, and he broke the d*** bed. The brief, faint, hope that he had found a safe place, a place he could possibly stay... the thought of the books the boy had told him about, books he had never yet read... and all of it faded like smoke before a fan... Bleak was the best descriptor for his eyes. His face was ever a mask, save those eyes, a bleed, muted, orange.