Here you are! Here’s 900 or so words, or exactly 30 sentences, of this boy. He’s adorable, and it’s always a pleasure to work with someone’s OC, even if it’s a little nerve-racking. As with any work I do with someone’s OC, it’s an interpretation of their OC, based on the info they give me. I hope you enjoy it!
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The moment your friend had told you that the large,
abandoned, Victorian house in the woods had been bought, you felt a thrill of
hope run through you for the old, run-down building. It was a glorious example
of the period, with stunning carved woodwork and original (if weathered)
features, a large wrap-around porch, and sash windows that glinted in the sun.
You’d always imagined that perhaps an elderly harpy would buy it, or maybe some
woods witch or other would move in and form close friendships with the
cervitaurs and other forest dwellers…
The autumn day had started out fine when you’d set out from
the edge of town, but the further you got up the winding, potholed track, the
more the wind picked up, cantankerously tugging at your hair and collar, and a
light mizzle began to drift down between the pines and oaks that lined your
usual walking path through the forest.
With a shudder as a trickle of rainwater dribbled down your
neck, you began to climb the hill towards the old house, and heard the steady ‘swish-crack-swish-crack’
of someone chopping logs for firewood. The track ran right past the house which
stood in its own little clearing, and as you squinted though the drizzle, you
saw a tall figure, hunched over against the weather, with an axe in his hands.
Long, floppy, caramel coloured rabbit’s ears hung down on either side of his
face, and his hunched, powerful shoulders were frankly massive; in contrast to
the bulk of his long, muscular arms, his waist was slim, and his thighs, which
were fitted into some gorgeous, form-fitting leggings, were toned and lean. His
feet – half masked by the long grass beneath them – were astonishingly
delicate, in the way that hares’ and rabbits’ feet are, and there was even a
little gap in the back of his leggings for a little sandy-coloured tail which
twitched and bobbed every now and again.
His left ear shifted slightly at the sound of your boots
squelching on the muddy track, and in an heartbeat he had whipped around and
turned to stare straight at you. Your footsteps faltered at the sight of his
unusual, blazing purple eyes which were unmistakably glaring furiously in the
dim mist of the afternoon. The way he held the axe couched casually between his
big hands suddenly sent a thrill through you, and regret and dread blossomed in
your chest at the thought that this beautiful house had been purchased by
someone who seemed so hostile and unkind.
“Hello!” you called, aiming for jovial as you raised an arm.
He raised his lip and showed you surprisingly sharp teeth
before growling, “You’re trespassing: get off my property.”
“Actually, this track is a public right of way,” you gabbled
quickly, “But I have to admit I was curious to see who bought the house that I
pass on my walks.”
“Well, now you know, and you also know that he doesn’t like
visitors.”
And with that, he turned his broad back on you and returned
to the regular rhythm of chopping wood.
To say that you were disappointed with your first encounter
with the rabbit-like creature who had moved in would have been an
understatement, but you didn’t give up, and you certainly didn’t alter your
walking route to avoid his house on your way out to the wild heathland beyond.
One hot summer day, as you were returning from a
particularly long hike, you saw him sitting on the front step with his chin in
his hand, the other outstretched, feeding bird seeds to a tiny wren.
For months now, he had been cold, distant, even hostile
towards you whenever you’d seen him in passing, but seeing that gesture made
your heart flutter, and you forgot your apprehension for a moment as you
stopped to watch him; he had a gentle heart after all.
He looked up at you and lifted his velvet-soft ear out of
the way with his free hand, revealing his purple eyes. When you said nothing
but simply smiled, nodded politely, and moved to walk on, feeling the thick,
cloying thirst only increasing the longer you went without water, he stood
suddenly, scaring the bird away, and he said, “Hey, um, miss?”
You froze, but turned back to look at him with curiosity and
no small amount of trepidation.
He swallowed, shuffled his feet slightly, then sighed and
looked directly at you. “It’s hot,” he said awkwardly, “And I was wondering if
you wanted something to drink. I realise I’ve been…” he gave another enormous
sigh, “… been somewhat unkind to you. I’d like to make it up to you.”
With a warm smile, you approached through the wrought-iron
gate to the small garden which he’d cultivated that spring around his house,
and unlaced your dusty boots on the veranda before following him inside.
Everything was arranged just-so, and he’d really kept the character of a
Victorian home in his renovations of the place. When you told him as much while
he was pouring you a glass of cordial, he turned back to look at you and thank
you, and as your gaze slid from his purple eyes with their eerie black sclera,
you noticed that his pink nose was shaped almost perfectly like a little heart.
It began with that first proffered glass of sweet
elderflower cordial, and you found yourself stopping by Victor’s house every
time you went for a walk after that. On some occasions he would come with you
on your hike, and he gradually began to open up to you, revealing a sweet and
intelligent nature behind his prickly armour, and on other occasions, you never
made it another step past his house before he had wrapped those long and
powerful arms around you, swept you off your feet, and taken you away upstairs.
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Toad's Cave 