florean fortescue always works on sundaes (ex_parlortri174) wrote in fourteenshades, @ 2013-10-10 00:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | x-florean fortescue, x-godolfr uppsalle |
Who: Florean Fortescue and OPEN to anyone who finds him or assists
What: Arriving in the village
When: Wednesday afternoon
Where: Inside the botanical garden, near the town square
Rating/Status: PG-13 for mention of injury/IC or OOC
He'd woken to a blinding bright light that wasn't an illumination spell, as he'd been accustomed to in the past weeks, but something that lit the entire cellar. For some time, he remained where he was, unmoving, with eyes closed tightly. It was peculiar how much the light resembled genuine sunlight, with actual warmth. There were no grunted orders or shrill voices either. He was outside, the floor of the cellar had transformed to grass, and there was a nice breeze, quite unlike the dank place he'd been living for time immeasurable.
Florean started to wonder if he was dead or had been rescued. As much as he wanted to hope for the best, his heart sank when he opened an eye and did not see Ollivander. The Wandmaker would have also been with him. Why would he have abandoned him after all they'd been through? He ignored the usual pain in his stomach and rolled to his side, and eventually chest, with a grimace. The grass was so cool, and smelled just like fresh grass that actually grew. There was none in the cellar, ever any in the cellar. All that grew in the cellar were dust and pests. He pressed his face into the glades and inhaled the long-missed scent of the outdoors. For a moment, he felt free and safe.
Walking was very difficult, since the last talk with the Monster. He looked up from the grass and saw a well-kept garden and gave a laugh. Was he home? Florean slowly opened his swollen eye to take it in better. It was a garden, but that wasn't all - there were buildings, and some trees. He started to cough, as frequently happened when he overextended himself; even laughing aggravated it by then. The fit didn't end until he spewed up blood. The tearing sensation within was getting worse.
Then he saw the leather-bound book ahead, only an arm's length away. A quill was neatly fit inside of it, and the sight would have made him laugh again, if he didn't stop himself. For some time, he stared at it, before finally wiping his bloody palms off on the grass. He pushed himself forward and when close enough, pulled the book back to him.
He opened to the first page, blank it was, and wrote the first word that came to his mind. A wave of nausea interrupted, and he choked out a gasp of pain, cutting his message short. Dying in the sun was preferable to the cellar, he thought, closing his eyes and settling back in the grass.