Hob Kin
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There was once a Goatman in the lands of Sacramento.
He shuttered himself away to avoid the tempest of emotion that churned around Men. Secreting himself away to a hidden Hollow and in more mundane sanctums, this Beast dedicated himself to his new purpose. He nurtured seedlings and prepared gardens for the coming Spring, but rarely aimed to speak with clients beyond words of payment and expectation.
The Goatman did all of this to hide himself from the tempest within.
Friends and family among Mankind have a way of reminding the Lost of the precious life stolen from them when they were taken and molded to fit within the stories of beings they could not comprehend. The vine-laden Beast was taken as a child. In this way, he was robbed of his youth and what it was to be raised among Humanity. Since his return, sightings of lost moments have been ever present.
Teenagers coming to bond with their parents, first loves in the torrent that was adolesence, and the establishment of life-long friendships were only a few. The Goatman had few comparisons. The bond he had with his fellow Beasts during his Durance was an animalistic thing, tempered with some fear on the part of his kinsmen due to the touch of nature upon his hide. The bestial ruts of the wilds were likewise a poor comparison to the compassion he saw in Men. For friendship, it had always been best for the Beasts to keep to their own. Outsiders often brought trouble to the woodlands they called home.
Thus, the Goatman avoided Men to avoid a part of himself.
His heart ached and grew heavy in his chest as he witnessed all the things that had been taken from him. So he locked them away by dedicating himself to the voices within whom he called his saviors. Sorrow was a painful feeling and he avoided it with practiced apathy and distance.
However, in coming to Sacramento, something within this Beast had shifted. Perhaps it was the proximity to the parents of Theodore Walton, who had gone and was now grown and molded anew. Perhaps it was the stubborness of those who sought his services to seek something deeper with him than their agreed upon contracts.
Whatever the source, the Goatman’s yearning to join with Men and Lost alike had grown stronger and, despite his best efforts, he had begun friendships. He walked the streets of the city more. He even allowed himself to speak to the Waltons in passing, thereby no longer being a stranger to them. They were once a family, but now they were only neighbors, with only ol’ Bugul being aware of the deeper truth.
Still he ignored the pit within his gut until a chance encounter with Diane, his own mother. It happened at the grocery store. Bugul had found himself in front of the pickles, his tired eyes roaming the brands, his hands bearing an abundance of dirt as evidence of a long days work. This wasn’t the first time he had found himself there, though he scarcely understood why this aisle drew him as often as it did.
Then came a voice.
“Hey, Bart!”
Bugul turned his head at the statement and there she was. Diane Walton in the flesh. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail. There was always something so odd about their encounters. Bugul knew very well that this woman had born him in his stolen life, but the flow of time had been much different in Arcadia. In this world, Diane was the younger of the pair by a far margin.
“Hello, Diane,” Bugul said, his voice and face evidencing his surprise, “Grocery shopping?”
“Yeah, just need a few things for dinner, saw you and figured I’d stop and say hey,” she said, glancing to the man’s hands, “Long day, huh? I kinda figured the winter would be slow for you.”
“It wasn’t all that bad, just some seedlings,” he said, “And its as good a time as any to get some ready for the spring.”
Well look at Bugul now. Making small talk with Men. If the folks in Denver could see him now…
Winter was the prime time to begin seedlings, but he didn't expect Diane to know and the woman had not come to him for an education. Thus, Bugul shelved the wish to teach. Instead he took the coming conversation as it came, content to converse and discuss the gossip of their neighborhood. Before long, Bugul’s eyes idly turned back to the pickles as he and Diane spoke of the news on the block, but his indecision must have been clear. Diane also noted his mostly empty basket.
“Just getting a few snacks for the house, or?” she asked, aiming to keep the conversation rolling.
“Yeah,” Bugul answered before gesturing to the jars, “I just can’t ever decide what to pick.”
Diane glanced to the pickles and, after a moment there was a beat. The change in her expression was a subtle thing, but whatever glimmer of memory had subdued her smile slightly and the indecision to share it was clear in her eyes.
“My, um,” she started as she reached for a jar, “My son always liked Vlasic dills.”
Liked.
Handing the jar to Bugul, the hidden Goatman searched her face, his own features adopting a knowing look tinged with empathy at the statement. He wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, if for no other reason to afford her some comfort, but Bugul knew he could not. In this new life, Diane did not know him closely.
“You gonna be alright?” he managed after a moment.
Diane nodded, her face flushing with some embarassment.
“I will be,” she affirms with a nod, “I, uh… I gotta go. We’ll see you around, okay?”
Bugul gave her a nod, letting her leave and turn before the tears rolled, even if he did see her eyes water and, as she left the isle, Bugul heard his mother sniff and find some resolve before carrying on.
Thus, Bugul came home with a reminder of himself, having learned a piece of his history he had forgotten. Placing the dills on the counter, Bugul opened the jar after washing his hands free from the day’s work. Retrieving one, the Goatman imbibed in a rekindled memory while he considered the profound truth the day had gifted him.
He was missed, but, by giving a part of herself to grief, his mother was healing.
So it was that Bugul refrained from retreating to his Hollow for the first time in many nights. By the night’s end, the dills were gone and Bugul did something his heart had been calling for him to do since his return.
Bugul finally wept for the life he had lost.
Saber Sloth I am aiming for this to be Bugul’s glimpse surrounding his experiencing Sorrow, if it is not in depth enough lemme know!
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