Post by Miles Landon on Aug 2, 2009 14:50:32 GMT -5
((this is downright odd. sort of a half assed attempt at surreal dream imagery. first post for willow. sorry it's late!))
Miles Landon was spent. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Drained. Almost nothing of him left, really. Somehow, he yet lived, if only by holding on to a tiny thread of sanity. He was on his last legs, ready to die in the streets like a dog when he was inexplicably rescued. This young lycan, this angel had found him and somehow had managed to drag his useless ass to relative safety, an empty house. There was furniture, from what he could tell. But it didn't actually look like anyone lived here. Which was curious, but not curious enough that he'd care if he got dirt on the matress when he collapsed into an exhausted heap on what just might've been (to his sleep deprived mind) the softest bed ever. At long last, he could sleep.
And dream.
Oh, did he dream. Mostly, dreams help to work out your trials and tribulations of the day in an admittedly surreal way. Miles had a lot to get through. First stop: that night. When he found out the woman he loved had been brutally murdered. He had came through the front door of the flat, more than a little tipsy. James sitting there, a dour expression on his face. His head was being consumed by flames as he spoke and he explained very carefully and very slowly what he had been called out to see that. A sickly, greasy smell entered his nostrils, the smell of burning human flesh. He told him how it had been Taya. Murdered. The flames took his head and the rest of his body but his voice was still audible. From the flames Taya appeared, reaching out to him as blood blossomed on her torso. Next was the blackness, the numbness of his months long alcoholic bender. Then, five days ago. Drinking at Joker's, the scene frozen in time fore him, he was suddenly able to take advantage of a different point of view. There he was, in the corner of his vision. The face that had been haunting him. There he was, sitting in the corner of the pub the whole time. Bastard. And he still didn't know his name. He took in the face very carefully, it was so ridiculously familiar about him. How could he not know who this man was?
He then found himself instantly transported to a field of tall grass. It was a dark night and a blood red moon hung overhead. A hunter's moon, he thought idly. He pushed his way through the grass, feet slipping slighty on the dew. He came to a clearing, dirt all around, a single rose in the middle. How wei-- He cut off his own thought. It suddenly made sense, in dream-logic kind of way. And as he began to awaken he struggled desperately to hold onto that one vital clue.
Miles Landon was spent. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Drained. Almost nothing of him left, really. Somehow, he yet lived, if only by holding on to a tiny thread of sanity. He was on his last legs, ready to die in the streets like a dog when he was inexplicably rescued. This young lycan, this angel had found him and somehow had managed to drag his useless ass to relative safety, an empty house. There was furniture, from what he could tell. But it didn't actually look like anyone lived here. Which was curious, but not curious enough that he'd care if he got dirt on the matress when he collapsed into an exhausted heap on what just might've been (to his sleep deprived mind) the softest bed ever. At long last, he could sleep.
And dream.
Oh, did he dream. Mostly, dreams help to work out your trials and tribulations of the day in an admittedly surreal way. Miles had a lot to get through. First stop: that night. When he found out the woman he loved had been brutally murdered. He had came through the front door of the flat, more than a little tipsy. James sitting there, a dour expression on his face. His head was being consumed by flames as he spoke and he explained very carefully and very slowly what he had been called out to see that. A sickly, greasy smell entered his nostrils, the smell of burning human flesh. He told him how it had been Taya. Murdered. The flames took his head and the rest of his body but his voice was still audible. From the flames Taya appeared, reaching out to him as blood blossomed on her torso. Next was the blackness, the numbness of his months long alcoholic bender. Then, five days ago. Drinking at Joker's, the scene frozen in time fore him, he was suddenly able to take advantage of a different point of view. There he was, in the corner of his vision. The face that had been haunting him. There he was, sitting in the corner of the pub the whole time. Bastard. And he still didn't know his name. He took in the face very carefully, it was so ridiculously familiar about him. How could he not know who this man was?
He then found himself instantly transported to a field of tall grass. It was a dark night and a blood red moon hung overhead. A hunter's moon, he thought idly. He pushed his way through the grass, feet slipping slighty on the dew. He came to a clearing, dirt all around, a single rose in the middle. How wei-- He cut off his own thought. It suddenly made sense, in dream-logic kind of way. And as he began to awaken he struggled desperately to hold onto that one vital clue.