Post by Deleted on Nov 6, 2010 0:21:02 GMT -5
(OOC: happens after this and before this. First post to Roan, then open)
Anil Hawkins had always been described as a morning person. For as long as he could remember, he’d been up by six in the morning like biological clockwork. Without fail, he’d wake just before the sun rose. The number of times total when he’d slept past noon his whole life could be have been counted on a hand or two if one disregarded the past year or so. But since the day the fleeting illusion of reality was wrested from him, all semblance of routine disappeared. It was a day that would forever be etched into his mind. Then after the shock faded, the dreams came. He lived that day over and over again in his sleep, waking only to find that that the nightmare he sought to escape followed him into his waking hours. Night, day, it didn’t make a difference. He was trapped within the memory of that neverending spiraling staircase. The granite steps glowed with moonlight. His footsteps echoed across the stone. He ran. He took the steps two, three at a time. How many times had he passed that window? The moon was full, bright, a pale solemn face overlooking the little world under it, cold, unfeeling, distant. The temperature was numbing. Every movement flowed like molasses. Faster. He needed to run faster. But the harder he tried the slower he went. That door. He needed to get to that door to the top of the tower. He could see it. It was pitch black. The steps glowed. He could see the door. He ran faster. It got no closer. Every step seemed to add to the distance between him and his destination. Molasses in winter. Cold. Numb. Someone was saying something. The words trickled into his ears like syrup. He couldn’t understand. Help. He had to help him somehow. What was it saying? It was behind that door. It was desperate, weakening. That door wasn’t getting any closer. But there it was. Anil grabbed the handle.
His eyes opened. Anil winced, closing them again, the shaft of sunlight across his face shooting a migraine straight into the back of his eyes. Bloody hell, what time was it? He forced himself to sit up on the couch, discovering that he was covered in cold, clammy sweat. It had been a long time since he’d had that dream. Then again, it had been a long time since he hadn’t put himself down with a bottle of whiskey at night. Speaking of which, he really should toss all the empty bottles he’d been leaving around. Anil glanced at the clock. Eleven in the morning. Two, three hours of sleep. Bloody hell. He sat there with his face in his hands for a few moments, but got up quickly, busying himself in the tiny kitchenette. As long as he was moving, he didn’t need to remember.
A quick flick of his wand summoned a tea kettle. “Water,” he said to it before rummaging through the pantry. It flew itself to the sink and the spigot turned on as Anil examined the cupboard. He frowned. Nothing but cheap tea and half a tin of rolled oats. Hardly worthy of being called breakfast. Oh bloody hell... He should have expected this. After all, he’d spent more time in the bars than in his flat for the last month. Ignoring the tin, he took the tea, setting it on the table before spooning its contents into a teapot. The kettle, having already finished boiling in the meantime, floated past him, filling the teapot with hot water. Two more teacups finished the table setting. The tea would be kept hot whenever Roan decided to wake up, thanks to the charmed teapot. However, it did nothing for the bitterness of the tea. Anil himself was fond of stronger tea, but if his guest was not, she’d hopefully get to it before it sat out for too long.
Having accomplished one thing for the morning, Anil headed for the door, intending to quickly bring back something edible. Either way, they both had to eat at some point, and the quiet growling of his stomach reminded him that he’d skipped supper the night before. Briefly, he considered waking Roan up. Leaving her alone in the flat seemed like a bad idea. Still, if Roan was half as tired as he was, she may be better off if he just let her sleep. Deciding that he could trust the dragonling Song to keep her mistress from doing anything stupid when she did wake up, Anil resolved to make the trip as quick as he could manage. He didn't fancy returning to the place and finding that he had to fight off swarms of vicious doxies.
Anil instinctively reached a hand towards an empty coat hook before remembering that his overcoat had been burned in the melee at the tower. The red-haired man sighed. He supposed he’d better get a new one at some point. Winter was fast approaching, though at times the weather could still be called warm. At few minutes later, he was gone, with the set table, tidied room, and a scrap of parchment charmed to a wall where it could easily be seen the only indicators of his presence.
Gone out. Be back soon. Oatmeal in the cupboard if you want it. Don’t leave the house. Mustang’s men are looking for you.
Anil Hawkins had always been described as a morning person. For as long as he could remember, he’d been up by six in the morning like biological clockwork. Without fail, he’d wake just before the sun rose. The number of times total when he’d slept past noon his whole life could be have been counted on a hand or two if one disregarded the past year or so. But since the day the fleeting illusion of reality was wrested from him, all semblance of routine disappeared. It was a day that would forever be etched into his mind. Then after the shock faded, the dreams came. He lived that day over and over again in his sleep, waking only to find that that the nightmare he sought to escape followed him into his waking hours. Night, day, it didn’t make a difference. He was trapped within the memory of that neverending spiraling staircase. The granite steps glowed with moonlight. His footsteps echoed across the stone. He ran. He took the steps two, three at a time. How many times had he passed that window? The moon was full, bright, a pale solemn face overlooking the little world under it, cold, unfeeling, distant. The temperature was numbing. Every movement flowed like molasses. Faster. He needed to run faster. But the harder he tried the slower he went. That door. He needed to get to that door to the top of the tower. He could see it. It was pitch black. The steps glowed. He could see the door. He ran faster. It got no closer. Every step seemed to add to the distance between him and his destination. Molasses in winter. Cold. Numb. Someone was saying something. The words trickled into his ears like syrup. He couldn’t understand. Help. He had to help him somehow. What was it saying? It was behind that door. It was desperate, weakening. That door wasn’t getting any closer. But there it was. Anil grabbed the handle.
His eyes opened. Anil winced, closing them again, the shaft of sunlight across his face shooting a migraine straight into the back of his eyes. Bloody hell, what time was it? He forced himself to sit up on the couch, discovering that he was covered in cold, clammy sweat. It had been a long time since he’d had that dream. Then again, it had been a long time since he hadn’t put himself down with a bottle of whiskey at night. Speaking of which, he really should toss all the empty bottles he’d been leaving around. Anil glanced at the clock. Eleven in the morning. Two, three hours of sleep. Bloody hell. He sat there with his face in his hands for a few moments, but got up quickly, busying himself in the tiny kitchenette. As long as he was moving, he didn’t need to remember.
A quick flick of his wand summoned a tea kettle. “Water,” he said to it before rummaging through the pantry. It flew itself to the sink and the spigot turned on as Anil examined the cupboard. He frowned. Nothing but cheap tea and half a tin of rolled oats. Hardly worthy of being called breakfast. Oh bloody hell... He should have expected this. After all, he’d spent more time in the bars than in his flat for the last month. Ignoring the tin, he took the tea, setting it on the table before spooning its contents into a teapot. The kettle, having already finished boiling in the meantime, floated past him, filling the teapot with hot water. Two more teacups finished the table setting. The tea would be kept hot whenever Roan decided to wake up, thanks to the charmed teapot. However, it did nothing for the bitterness of the tea. Anil himself was fond of stronger tea, but if his guest was not, she’d hopefully get to it before it sat out for too long.
Having accomplished one thing for the morning, Anil headed for the door, intending to quickly bring back something edible. Either way, they both had to eat at some point, and the quiet growling of his stomach reminded him that he’d skipped supper the night before. Briefly, he considered waking Roan up. Leaving her alone in the flat seemed like a bad idea. Still, if Roan was half as tired as he was, she may be better off if he just let her sleep. Deciding that he could trust the dragonling Song to keep her mistress from doing anything stupid when she did wake up, Anil resolved to make the trip as quick as he could manage. He didn't fancy returning to the place and finding that he had to fight off swarms of vicious doxies.
Anil instinctively reached a hand towards an empty coat hook before remembering that his overcoat had been burned in the melee at the tower. The red-haired man sighed. He supposed he’d better get a new one at some point. Winter was fast approaching, though at times the weather could still be called warm. At few minutes later, he was gone, with the set table, tidied room, and a scrap of parchment charmed to a wall where it could easily be seen the only indicators of his presence.
Gone out. Be back soon. Oatmeal in the cupboard if you want it. Don’t leave the house. Mustang’s men are looking for you.