who: ragnar lothbrok. what: the first door on the right; narrative [will open if anyone wants a snip.] where: DC: gotham. when: not too long ago. warnings/rating: does peeing in public count? ;)
The slow burning, line-by-line paper, marching up the acrid pulpit of stealthily laced tobacco. They, those young men leaning on soiled, ascending red stone blow this misty memory smoke he’s seen the ocean spit, straight into the way of his saunter. He’s canted his head, a curious wolf, and with an Iron Age lack of modern manners, he extracts, without asking, the tiny red and white box that embosses the strange pocket on the young ones chest. Marlburo, scrawled, fancy symbols beyond his comprehension. This is the place they'd took those out from.
The young men speak nothing between them, only watch the viking in awe. Their converse shuffle the blacked out rainbow of gum pocking the sidewalk, holding their breath until they can’t anymore.
Ragnar’s used to having this disorienting effect on people (essentially, it’s a way to mask his own confusion.) and was counting on using it to his advantage, you see, not many people realize that being bold paralyzes the pitifully weak-willed. And he’s got the itch of curiosity tickling his throat and painted ears.
A smoking stick is took, he wonders what should become of it to make it cloud like theirs. It’s brought between his lips, clamped there with his teeth and an inviting grin. All he can demand to the two scared kids, who think he’s either some homeless fucking wacko or an actor at medieval times that’s high on LSD, is:
“Make this one like yours.” and he points to the end; how'd they get theirs to smolder?
And with a trembling, over-ornamented wrist fussed up with too much jewelry for a man, the dark-haired boy reaches to light the end of the odd little stick and the one with the cobalt eyes flinches. Ragnar’s never seen fire wielded so easily, but then again, he’s never seen a stone jungle or all this strange garb either. He’s already thrown the full bundle of other white sticks he’s raided into the street; it lay there dead, road kill for a passing taxi.
After a short deliberation, Ragnar leans in to allow this one to attempt his fire trick again.
Nothing happens, a flick of smoke that saunters up to no where.
“You-you have to breathe it in, uh... ” the stranger manages, but Ragnar has already spit it out. It bounces from the force of his exhale, off of the chest of the boy who just muttered.
He's lost interest in the strange custom already and continues down the street.
The lousy air has never tasted so filthy in his mouth; his tongue coats with the vile breath of the cities occupants and its monstrous stones.
There's a park he reaches eventually, publicly shifting the uncomfortable leather of his crotch. He's never had to piss so badly.
And, after he reaches a big enough tree, his axe is punched into the bark so that his hands can be free.
While he relieves himself, there, in front of the small audience of gasping mothers and their tiny animals on strings...