theo. (escutcheon) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-04-01 11:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !thread, altair laurent, theodore finch |
thread: theo and altair.
Who: Theo Finch and Altair Laurent.
What: Waking, and the start of another day.
Where: Home, the Nobles District.
When: This morning.
Rating: PG-13, some mild references to violence.
Status: Complete.
There was blistering sand beneath their feet, dried blood under their nails and along their weather-beaten skin, the rust-colored blood of the ruined army at their backs. The battlefield stretched for miles behind him, staining the seas of sand with bodies of the fallen soldiers and an enemy now conquered. The king raised his sword to the sky as a sign of victory, releasing a shout in an old and foreign tongue. This was only the beginning of their war, their conquest--a unification wrought by the merciless might of the sword. They could feel It itching in their blood, coursing hot, rage and hunger pulsing loudly to drown the world of any other sound and feeling. The sand burned with the heat of the sun above, ancient, unforgiving. In their sight, everything burned. Theo laid on his stomach, gazing numbly at the door to the empty room beyond. Dawn light crept through the blinds of the window, sending tall shadows creeping along the expanse of the floor. Sleep was slow to subside and Theo's bleary mind was full of memories not his own, dreams warped and twisted round in paths leading to unknown rooms and corridors of grisly visions. He sat up at last, making firm mental note of what was reality and what was false. The cold tiled floor under his feet, the dryness of his mouth, the way his muscles ached and protested at the notion of getting out of bed. It was the beginning of another day, another list of tasks to be completed. Theo scratched idly at the bandages on his arm. He went through his morning routine as always, making sure he didn't go in for his duties looking untidy or unkempt. Theo slung his sword, Ragnarok, a hefty blade nearly as great as his own height, securely across his back--a comforting weight to keep him grounded to the waking world. It was an ordinary morning, or as ordinary as his mornings typically offered him, and Theo walked down the length of Rue Vermillion with the force and purpose he always presented. A small word or a curt nod was given to those on the street, his greetings short and to the point, and he walked in the direction of the nearest guildhall. It was early yet in the day and he expected little to delay his travel. |