guy. (inspirers) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-10-29 12:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, guy lenard |
Who: Guy Lenard.
What: Travel notes.
Where: Outlands, Emillion, LeSait, his apartment, etc.
When: Scattered in pieces throughout the past month or so.
Rating: PG-13, some brief mention of violence.
Status: Complete narrative.
Guy awoke face down on a foreign pillow. With the logs in the woodfire stove across the room still smoldering, the crisp autumn chill that had built during the evening hadn’t managed to permeate the room completely. Not all of these tiny, outlands inns were sturdily built--many times, and Guy knew this well from experience, the cold winds seeped right through every tiny hole and crevice in the walls. He rubbed at his eyes with the base of one palm, recognizing the distant sound of chickens being fed outside, the shuffle of boots on the oak floor down the hallway. Someone had knocked at the door, he realized, and they did so again. Breakfast. He moved and his body protested. Sore muscles, stiff joints, weather-beaten skin from too many days on the road. Guy’s slight grimace gave eventual way to a practiced smile, however, as he shuffled his way painfully over to the door. His clothes were wrinkled, his beard grown thick. He made for quite a sight, but fortunately, the innkeep’s daughter seemed not to mind. She smiled. “Good morning, sir,” she said, and sure enough the tray in her hands had proved his theory correct. “Hope I haven’t woken you.” "Not at all," he managed to chirp in reply. He drank his coffee from a dented tin cup, a crooked, hand-rolled cigarette wedged between his fingers (he’d bought potions from one of the wisewomen, salves to keep his hands from cracking) as the mage shifted around the papers in his lap. Guy adjusted the brightness of the lamp near his knee, and fortunately, the magicite afforded only a steady, unwavering light, entirely unperturbed by the breeze that eeked its way through the tent flap. The sun was dipping down below the horizon now, and he didn’t have much choice but to make camp near the edge of a river. Fortunate for him, this location had seen many travelers before, and less effort needed to be made to dig out the fire pit (already denoted by a circle of heavy stones) and to find a good spot to pitch up his tent. Cecil was the only consistent noise around, save for the whistling of the wind across the lake, and Guy had long grown accustomed to the bird as his most stable source of companionship. While the chocobo scratched the ground and toiled with making himself comfortable outside, Guy began to mark another series of points on his map. Death and sickness, creeping steadily westward. He wrote records until his hand grew sore, until the coffee turned cold and stale (he’d drained the cup anyway), and until Cecil seemed to finally quiet. Guy shifted into the warmth of his bedroll and allowed his mind to wander to a list full of concerning ifs and whens. His bladed boomerang was wedged deep in the wolf’s throat. Rangers scattered through the woods, flanking the mage on all sides and working diligently to clear the forest of the fallen beast’s pack brothers. One stopped to remark on the kill. Good aim, the knight said, pointing with the tip of his sword. Guy put his foot down on the dead beast’s head and said a chipper thank you. Removing the weapon took both hands. “You look like shit,” commented the Grand Inquisitor’s assistant, cheerily blunt in her observations as ever. She gazed at him over her drooping spectacles. “Just made it back to city again?” Guy tried not to slouch in the waiting chair. He’d showered hastily, shaved (a crooked cut was scabbing over, forming just along his jawline), and found a suit that wasn’t awkward fitting or had been stuffed in the corner of his closet, discarded and destined to wrinkle for months. Smiling did little to improve his appearance, or detract from the dark circles resting underneath his eyes. “Well now, you know how it is,” he said conversationally, “she always wants to hear from me first thing.” His voice was dry and lacking in any generous warmth or enthusiasm, but the woman seemed accustomed to it. With perfect timing, Heinlein’s voice thundered in the room just beyond. Time to check in. Sometimes he preferred the wolves. The newspapers made an untidy stack at the bottom of his door. Guy loaded up the yellowing rolls of paper underneath one arm and shook out the keys from his jacket. Opening up the door with a burst of regained energy, he called out "Welcome back!" to no one in particular. The apartment consisted of one large room, sectioned off mainly by different piles of clutter. Unlike his office in the Tower, however, it had not been organized by his cohort in crime, and for all purposes his life in the city seemed nothing but untidy and untended. Guy plopped his travel bags down in the doorway, his boots and jacket quick to follow--another small pile of clutter now added to a much larger collection. He worked at his own pace, brewing up a pot of fresh coffee, tending to the fireplace (a wide apartment with a large number of windows meant more room to jar up the cold air), and cooking up some semblance of a hot meal. Corned beef hash, right out of the cast iron griddle he'd brought with in his travels (the cookware was practically indestructible). Soon enough, the apartment was filled with the sounds and warmth of living once again. |