|Leslie Laufey (ljuga) wrote in repose,|
@ 2018-12-31 19:45:00
|Entry tags:||*log, lear laufey, leslie laufey, nel laufey|
log: lear l, leslie l, nel l; a picnic
Who: Lear, Leslie, and Nel
What: A meeting out by the orchard.
Warnings/Rating: None yet.
It could not have been further from a picnic.
Leslie had a slight, slimly proportioned flask tucked into the inside pocket of his blazer. Its weight was a known quantity, and a comfort. He was unafraid, but he was nervous. Was it strange, that he could be nervous? He could be afraid, too, though he didn't fear Death and her pet Snake. It was already evening out under the apple trees, and he ran a thumb across the grooved bark. He wrinkled his nose, thinking of faraway things, of deep, tall forests and the branching apple trees of stories.
Something cracked in the underbrush, and he turned his head. He was older than he had been at Vale, this face was older, but it was the same face. It was anyone's guess whether it was his real face, or if he had one. Surely, he must. This was the face he liked best, though, and he had never really altered it. He wore tweed. It might have been ironic, hard to tell, but it fit him comfortably, an old garment that had traveled. He was slight and a little short, and there was a pair of glasses showing its lenses against his pocket, one arm slipped inside. His green eyes were limpid and soft. "I forgot the picnic basket."