| Fair Mistress Dawn (Narrative) |
[01 Jan 2008|09:13am] |
Staring at the vile concoction before him, Asklepios wondered why he continued to drink to excess as he did. The health effects alone were enough to make him shudder. Not to mention his current physiological condition. Lips dry. Vitamin deficiencies of many varieties. He blinked slowly. Very slowly. Muscle control was possible but painful. Extreme sensitivity to light. Every bottle of wine or alcohol should come with a label that proclaimed their ill side effects in bold-face letters, larger than whatever foolish image was on the side of the bottle. This one, if he wasn't mistaken, had three blind moose wearing sunglasses and drinking wine on the label. Starving the brain of glucose was never a good idea, and he was feeling the effects of it now. A sour grimace was directed at the potion he'd designed for himself. A small sample had revealed the foul taste of the mixture to him, but that was probably a result of his mood and not the medicinal properties of the mixture. Pureed avocado mixed with the juice of the Indian fig opuntia. Asklepios kept a list of remedies to try on such hangovers, which perhaps occurred more often than was technically necessary. This was next on the list, though he doubted it was going to be more effective than the last one, which he'd dubbed the 'acetylsalicylic bomb'. There was always hope.
( One long, shuddering breath. )
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| In Justice (Tyr) |
[01 Jan 2008|11:37am] |
Concrete beneath his back. He'd given the bed to Tyr, out of respect for the man's lone hand. That was a hard handicap, in a hard world. Shamash wouldn't have wished it on his worst enemy. There were reasons that he couldn't feel his legs, but he didn't know what they were. The feeling returned on the instant. As if summoned by his thoughts. No headache, not really. Just fatigue. Shamash flexed one hand, then the other, and eventually found himself staring at a bright light. Very bright. Brighter even than the sun to his eyes, so he closed them again and tried to feel the room around him. Concrete floor. Yes, he knew that. The bed was flat but comfortable. It felt like the bed he'd slept on for so many years inside the ziggurat, easy but not extravagant. That led him to wonder what else he could find in the room, but there was nothing. Nothing he could reach from his spot on the floor, at least. Shamash opened his eyes again. Again, that bright light confronted him, and he closed them. It wasn't a hangover. It wasn't a beating. At least, not so far as he could remember. Oh, yes. He could remember. The beating. His nose had been bleeding, hadn't it? What happened after that?
Shamash felt his shirt carefully, with one hand.
( Blood. )
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