[So walking again, huh? It's amazing how Wirt's able to walk so much without getting tired. Even before coming here to Islandia, he and Greg walked miles without too many breaks to get home, so really it's not much different now and he doesn't really have anything to complain about.
Well alright, that's a lie. There was something Wirt had a right to complain about, and it was these poorly rhymed hints carved into trees.
Rhyming poetry wasn't exactly Wirt's forte, he preferred poetry with more meaning and less strict rules, but he still did throw a rhyming one out there every now and then. It was still a complicated and sophisticated form of art! So seeing this... sad excuse for a rhyme was just offending to him, to be honest. And it was written all over his face as he was staring at one of the clues, with the most disgusted expression you've probably seen on the kid yet.]
b.
[While trailblazing, here are some things you'll find Wirt doing; forlornly staring off into space like the last trek the group had, getting his cape very stuck on a thornbush, or stepping right into a trap be it a net trap or pitfall or what have you. He doesn't have much of a good time with difficult journeys like this, as it should be clear by now, but at least he's giving some good effort despite how often he gets himself into SOME kind of trouble...]
d.
[Oh boy, did someone say resting? Though Wirt is good at walking for hours with no set destination or direction in mind, even he needs to take a break from the wilderness that was seemingly trying to hinder him. And you'll find him quite forlornly sitting on a stump, with his head in his hands. If you approach him, you can catch him speaking a poem to himself, even. What a weirdo.]
Do I not have the right, to see love again? To feel my heart beating, whenever I lay eyes on her beautiful face? For naught is my yearning in vain, but rather, it is my inspiration. Without love I am like a bird within a cage; a book without a page. That is, to say, it is the blood within my veins, and thus as each and every day passes, I grow weary, lost, uneasy.
My love, scattered across the graves, left behind within the woods, lying above the clouds; though I shant lay my eyes upon you once more, you will-- [He stops there and sighs disgruntledly, fixing his hat's position a bit as he thinks about what an awful poem he just spoke. He hasn't noticed anyone just yet, and he only hopes no one was around to hear him.]
no subject
[So walking again, huh? It's amazing how Wirt's able to walk so much without getting tired. Even before coming here to Islandia, he and Greg walked miles without too many breaks to get home, so really it's not much different now and he doesn't really have anything to complain about.
Well alright, that's a lie. There was something Wirt had a right to complain about, and it was these poorly rhymed hints carved into trees.
Rhyming poetry wasn't exactly Wirt's forte, he preferred poetry with more meaning and less strict rules, but he still did throw a rhyming one out there every now and then. It was still a complicated and sophisticated form of art! So seeing this... sad excuse for a rhyme was just offending to him, to be honest. And it was written all over his face as he was staring at one of the clues, with the most disgusted expression you've probably seen on the kid yet.]
b.
[While trailblazing, here are some things you'll find Wirt doing; forlornly staring off into space like the last trek the group had, getting his cape very stuck on a thornbush, or stepping right into a trap be it a net trap or pitfall or what have you. He doesn't have much of a good time with difficult journeys like this, as it should be clear by now, but at least he's giving some good effort despite how often he gets himself into SOME kind of trouble...]
d.
[Oh boy, did someone say resting? Though Wirt is good at walking for hours with no set destination or direction in mind, even he needs to take a break from the wilderness that was seemingly trying to hinder him. And you'll find him quite forlornly sitting on a stump, with his head in his hands. If you approach him, you can catch him speaking a poem to himself, even. What a weirdo.]
Do I not have the right, to see love again? To feel my heart beating, whenever I lay eyes on her beautiful face? For naught is my yearning in vain, but rather, it is my inspiration. Without love I am like a bird within a cage; a book without a page. That is, to say, it is the blood within my veins, and thus as each and every day passes, I grow weary, lost, uneasy.
My love, scattered across the graves, left behind within the woods, lying above the clouds; though I shant lay my eyes upon you once more, you will-- [He stops there and sighs disgruntledly, fixing his hat's position a bit as he thinks about what an awful poem he just spoke. He hasn't noticed anyone just yet, and he only hopes no one was around to hear him.]