Post by Mury 6.0 on Feb 8, 2010 22:31:12 GMT -5
It was a dark and stormy relatively clear, if a bit overcast, night as Firefox's brooding, worthless defender stalked to the top of Ravenwood Tower, the stench of fire-whiskey preceding him like a crappy reputation. The alcohol, as expected, was of little avail; as much as he drowned himself in grog, Muryllis remained downcast and hateful. The self-pity he wallowed in was itself plentiful enough to start a brewery - liquid courage meets bottled tears.
The bottle of Jarg Danial's 'Old No. 8' Brand Fire-Whiskey, which he had had the brains to dose with an anti-shattering charm beforehand, bounced across the floor of one of the tower's observation rooms, ignoring the biting February wind which poured in from the window the man was spewing out of. It would likely be the last successful display of magic for the night - from Muryllis, anyhow. At least, that's what he thought as he pulled himself out of the window and fell into a heap beside it, trying (with all the success of a worthless Muggle) to summon the bottle back to his hand. Maybe it would help if he pulled his wand out? Maybe not. Nope, definitely not.
Having somehow unwoven the bottle's protective enchantment, he settled back, gazing at the puddle of fire-whiskey and shards of glass across the room. It moved. The entire room moved, spinning if he held his eyes still for more than a second. And if he closed them…
Clutching the window sill, he retched again, cursing his luck as vomit poured out of his nostrils. Peanuts and alcohol. The wind felt delightful after a night (and day, and morning) of drinking - he would have to make sure to crawl someplace warmer before passing out or risk freezing to death overnight. Though, shutting the window would serve just as well. He caught a whiff of the smell in his nose and, eyes snapping open, leaned over again.
To be fair, though, it all got him exactly where he wanted to be: a place, a mental space of some sort, where he could forget about his problems. Puking took his mind off things. He didn't think much about being human (a given, considering the situation) as he blew spiked peanut butter out of his nose. Unknown was the least of his worries as he spat out a mushy loogie, watching it sail down the side of the tower. Why was the tower moving? It was like the whole world was swaying.
He didn't care about Roan as he hugged the window sill again, emptying himself of every drop of bile he had ever produced. Maybe if he weren't on the verge of blacking out, he would care for a hug; for now, he would rather make out with a toilet, and there wasn't one within crawling distance. For now, this window was his only friend in life.
The bottle of Jarg Danial's 'Old No. 8' Brand Fire-Whiskey, which he had had the brains to dose with an anti-shattering charm beforehand, bounced across the floor of one of the tower's observation rooms, ignoring the biting February wind which poured in from the window the man was spewing out of. It would likely be the last successful display of magic for the night - from Muryllis, anyhow. At least, that's what he thought as he pulled himself out of the window and fell into a heap beside it, trying (with all the success of a worthless Muggle) to summon the bottle back to his hand. Maybe it would help if he pulled his wand out? Maybe not. Nope, definitely not.
Having somehow unwoven the bottle's protective enchantment, he settled back, gazing at the puddle of fire-whiskey and shards of glass across the room. It moved. The entire room moved, spinning if he held his eyes still for more than a second. And if he closed them…
Clutching the window sill, he retched again, cursing his luck as vomit poured out of his nostrils. Peanuts and alcohol. The wind felt delightful after a night (and day, and morning) of drinking - he would have to make sure to crawl someplace warmer before passing out or risk freezing to death overnight. Though, shutting the window would serve just as well. He caught a whiff of the smell in his nose and, eyes snapping open, leaned over again.
To be fair, though, it all got him exactly where he wanted to be: a place, a mental space of some sort, where he could forget about his problems. Puking took his mind off things. He didn't think much about being human (a given, considering the situation) as he blew spiked peanut butter out of his nose. Unknown was the least of his worries as he spat out a mushy loogie, watching it sail down the side of the tower. Why was the tower moving? It was like the whole world was swaying.
He didn't care about Roan as he hugged the window sill again, emptying himself of every drop of bile he had ever produced. Maybe if he weren't on the verge of blacking out, he would care for a hug; for now, he would rather make out with a toilet, and there wasn't one within crawling distance. For now, this window was his only friend in life.