Forrest could remember vague bits and pieces from the fateful night of the festival - more than would leave him comfortably ignorant and less then he could put together with any coherence. It frustrated him to no end, made him restless and quick to anger and decidedly pissed at his hellhound companion who refused to give him any further details outside the vague and placating in order to spare him the burden. And yet, there he was, feeling decidedly burdened by the fragments of the night he just couldn’t piece back together. It reminded him of when he had first inherited Salvatore as a cohabitant of his body - back when he didn’t know of their presence and his life had spiraled into irreparable disarray.
That was also...rather unpleasant.
Tearing off another piece of bread from his lackluster sandwich for the pigeons, he tossed it to them unceremoniously, watching them squabble over it with vague disinterest. He was startled out of his thoughts when the pigeons scattered as someone approached, looking up to properly meet their gaze. “Are there no other benches to your standard?”
The breeze was soothing, the birdsong sweet, and all was as it should be among the garden. The sunflowers angled towards the filtered sunlight, the carefully-arranged trellises barely beginning to bud with dew shining on emerald satin leaves. Galileo took pride in his wildflower garden, kept neat without detracting from the beauty of nature. He enjoyed the fascinating way ivy twined, flowers blooming in sprays of color that he could have never dreamed of organizing himself. He was content to drink in the sight drenched in morning light before he began his work for the day.
Once the moment had passed and his heart had settled into it’s familiar place, lazy and content between his ribs, he padded towards his hives. The beehives had been lovingly coaxed into a proud cacophony of buzzing, some bees swaying through the air to bump into Galileo and nuzzle into his ample mane. He didn’t mind the company as he checked each busy nook, scent imprinting upon his memory, reminding him of love, of home, of the good things long past.
The work was by habit now, but never without love. There was a peaceful cadence in it, uninterrupted. But this day, the birds stopped singing without his notice. He turned to fetch a watering can and in a moment, life spiralled out of order as a flash of color clouded his vision and he felt tiny hands bury themselves in his mane. A broken whimper came from the strange interruption and confusion changed into a protective instinct that had him wrap his arms around the bundle, pick them up and carry them inside his home, murmuring words of comfort. Once inside, he heard the forest shaking, the birds screeching as they were scared from their homes. Eyes greener than ivy with strange peach irises shone with tears as they met his own, and he saw a child, lost and alone, desperate to be saved.
“Little one, stay here, hide if you can. I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, despite his mind’s chiding and his heart’s fearful thrumming. The child bit their lip and nodded, uncertain but trusting the beekeeper’s soft words.
What have I gotten myself into? He could only think helplessly before he walked slowly to his watering can, as if nothing had happened after all. Just as he bent to pick it up, a voice that rang with authority called to him, “Halt, hermit. I must ask if you have seen a lost child? We seek to bring him home.”
As he looked up, he was greeted with an intimidating smile that promised only lies, the woman obviously forcing her body to attempt a casual pose as her hand lay upon her sword, muscles taut with the intent to pounce. She was a tigress hunting her prey, thrilled with the chase and unconcerned with how long it would take to play with it once caught. He felt a shiver run down his spine but his voice was steady, quiet from little use, “I have seen no one here for some time.” The truth, but worded carefully.
The soldier’s smile turned from warmth to gritted cold, anger licking like a flame in her eyes. As she opened her mouth to speak, there was a sudden noise from his cottage. He tensed slightly, cursing inwardly to all the deities while begging that she hadn’t heard.
She had, suspicion clouding her expression as she asked slow and with clear intent should he not answer truthfully, “Aren’t you going to see what that noise was?”
He shrugged, shifting the watering can to rest on his hip as if he were not concerned with her, “Likely a bird or squirrel, I often nurture injured creatures who attach themselves to my home for a season.”
She licked her lips, clearly irritated but far less suspicious than before as she exhaled, “Well, if you see a child–”
“I will call for you. I do not wish to keep a child from his home.”
She nodded curtly before turning to vanish once more into the woods, strangely not calling the name of the missing child. But he knew that home was not where she would have taken him. He doubted the child had a home.
He watched the trees until he was certain she had gone, then dropped the can and strode towards his home, now occupied by a certain child that upon opening the door he finally got a proper look over him.
The child was curled up beneath the kitchen table, hiding behind the tablecloth until the door opened and he peeked out to see Galileo. The child relaxed at the sight, rubbing away the tears on his dark-skinned cheeks as if trying to hide evidence of his fear.
More remarkable than his eyes however, was the sudden intrusion of mushrooms from his feet, the fungi growing as if blasted out from the child. He didn’t know what to make of it, speechless.
“Forrest. My name is Forrest,” the child finally said in a quiet, uncertain voice. “Thank you.”
“Galileo,” he answered, kneeling with a careful uncertainty. “You’re welcome.” Forrest tugged a hat that seemed to be the top of a spotted mushroom down over his eyes, stammering out an apology, “Ssorry for the…the fungi, I’ll leave.” Clearly he was still terrified, exhausted, and desperately in need of someone to take care of him.
Galileo softened towards the strange magical boy that had landed in his lap, reaching out to help him crawl out from under the table. “Well, you could leave, but before you decide, how about I make you some tea and sandwiches?”
For the first time, he saw a shy smile, uncertain as it was, beneath the cap. Forrest lifted the edge slightly up again, and took the hand offered, giggling a little as a lazy bee flew out from Galileo’s mane and landed on his cap. “Okay. Do you have any honey?”
“People get hurt so often this time of year. It is as if they believe themselves invincible because they see the world through a haze of tinsel and baubles.” Forrest sighed, rubbing at his forehead as if that would get rid of the headache that had come from the exhausting shifts he’d been pulling. He had no great love for Christmas, especially after he’d split from his partner, but he wasn’t actively against it. The exhausting shifts full of exponentially increasing injuries - both major and minor - were just not effective in lightening his mood. It wasn’t even the week of Christmas yet and people were already chopping off fingers trying to get their own tree and falling off roofs for the sake of some lights. “I do not envy the hospital staff this time of the year.”
"Sugar and broccoli. I was often left alone as a child and my mother never kept sweets in the house. She did have sugar for her coffee and vegetables in the refrigerator, however. It did not make for a suitable replacement."
[ Tom Sturridge, male, he/him ] whatever you think you know about FORREST TURNER, the 32 year old, DEMISEXUAL, NEW COMER, it is likely time for you to start reconsidering. the rumored HELLHOUND is often described as SELF-ASSURED + PERSONABLE, but don’t let them fool you; they can also be MELODRAMATIC + HEADSTRONG, which often has them regarded as the WAYWARD. they are a EMT at NEW HOPE HEALTH CENTER, but it’s also said they are a N/A within the N/A. whatever you hear, you can’t deny there’s more to them that meets the eye, and it’s time we start uncovering the truth.
(tw for dead animals - specifically roadkill and taxidermy, near death experiences, and vague descriptions of major injury)
Name: Forrest Ashley Turner
Nickname(s): n/a
Age: 32
Title: The Wayward
DOB: November 15th
Gender Identity: Cismale
Sexual Orientation: Demisexual
Relationship Status: Single
Occupation: EMT (Paramedic)
& Appearance
Height: 5′9″
Hair Color: Black/Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Distinguishing features: typically wears all or mostly black in what could be referred to as a gothic style
Tattoos/Piercings: he has his ears pierced but he never wears any jewelry in them anymore
Forrest had never lived in one place for more than a few years, constantly moving around the country even as a child. His mother went through places and people and jobs as easily as most people went through paper towels or clean laundry. Home was never a place for him, he felt no deep connection to anywhere he moved save for a few years in Arizona when he was in middle school, and when his mom died the year after he graduated high school it was as if he’d been set adrift in a vast ocean with only a few tethers to cling to.
One of those tethers was a long-time friend and “pen-pal” he’d be writing to - first on paper and then via email since it was easier than constantly updating addresses - since the age of thirteen. Their name was Sydney and miraculously he had managed to keep their contact constant even until adulthood, catching snippets of their life through hasty emails and the occasional card. Besides his mother, they were the only person they’d known longer than two years up until her death had turned everything on its head.
His life continued in limbo for the next six months, unsure where or even how to settle down after a lifetime of jumping place to place. He stayed put in Seattle where his mother had died for a while, taking up odd jobs and trudging through life like a zombie until he saw an advert for a summer EMT course and decided to take it. As the first thing that had peaked his interest since he’d entered his free-floating limbo, it seemed worth a shot and Sydney wholeheartedly agreed when he mentioned it to them in passing.
The course sparked a new impulse - a drive to do something more than float. It was a new era in Forrest’s life and, much like his mother, he felt the need for a change of scenery. Moving to North Carolina to room with Sydney and finish the schooling needed to become an EMT was the best decision he’d ever made. A new tether formed to keep him ashore for the time being.
When Syd started getting serious with their boyfriend, he moved out and got another place with a friend from work. It was a good arrangement, they both kept the same weird hours and often worked the same shifts so they were able to discuss the more bizarre cases they encountered with no preamble.
Forrest’s roommate became another tether to keep him in North Carolina and then, he became an even stronger tether as their relationship became romantic. It was an odd sort of thing for Forrest considering he’d never really had too many romantic feelings for people previously, but he didn’t let that stop him. He was happy and content and home was a place and a person instead of some vague idea.
(tw for dead animals, near death experiences, vague descriptions of major injury) He had been fascinated by death and the aftermath from a young age. Sure, he loved helping to keep people out of the ground most days, but the thought of dying had never been particularly terrifying. Graveyards were gorgeous memorials to what came before and he had a very similar mentality toward taxidermy. Which he picked up as a hobby in his late teens and hasn’t stopped doing since.
He started practicing on roadkill (that he chose selectively, bc rotting animals is a no go), which was ironic considering he got hit by a car in his late twenties. For all intents and purposes he should’ve died bleeding and broken out on the side of the road, but he woke up a week later at home with barely a scratch on him and a concerned supervisor - and an even more concerned boyfriend - wondering where the hell he’d been. (end tw)
That was only the beginning of the weirdness, however, as he began to lose chunks of time every few days and was told by friends and neighbors that he’d been seen places he didn’t remember going. It was beyond upsetting, but he kept it to himself, not wanting to lose his job or the stability he’d held onto for the first time in his life.
It snapped his carefully cultivated tethers and sent him free-floating all over again, only this time he couldn’t mourn the loss.
The hellhound - the entity he’d eventually come to understand was the only reason he was still alive - stayed undetectable for almost six months while Forrest tried and failed to keep himself together. His partner was worried and he was barely hanging onto the job he loved so much and when it all came crashing down, the hellhound revealed itself. At first, he was sure he’d finally lost it completely, but there were some things too real and yet too fantastical for explanation.
Forrest moved to Creation Peaks feeling so very much like the person his mother had been - adrift, changing lives whenever things didn’t go to plan, alone. He didn’t know why, exactly, he chose that location but he had a feeling the hellhound had something to do with it. Even still, that didn’t deter him. A fresh start was a fresh start and if it meant he kept his body’s cohabitant happy, maybe that would be to his advantage. His bond with the beast wasn’t strong - the grief he felt over the life he lost too intense to allow anything but anger and disbelief, but his knowledge of it had soothed some of the wounds in his psyche. Enough he was slowly returning to some semblance of normalcy.
& Random Headcanons
He has a cat named Sundae. Her acquisition was not intentional but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s not supposed to live in his apartment. Forrest has never had a pet before.
A lot of his taxidermy consists of restoration of old pieces and adding a bit of whimsy to them because he thinks it’s a real shame to let them rot away in a box. He sometimes does them as commission items as well for friends or for a bit of supplemental income, but he doesn’t want to do any more than that lest his fun hobby become a chore thanks to capitalism.
He doesn’t kill any animals for his taxidermy nor does he approve of the practice. It’s more a way to give their physical form new life and purpose once they’re no longer using it. Natural causes only.
His mom’s ashes are in a little necklace urn he wears around because she wanted to never stop traveling. He doesn’t wear it as much as he used to.
He cycles between having many personal items and purging them to the kind of minimalism he grew up with moving so frequently.
& Wanted Connections
friends: friends are good, everyone needs friends
ill add more later, pls feel free to dm if you wanna come up with something together too!
