Nodding, its great head rattling like a gourd,
And locks like seaweed strung on the stinking stone,
The nightmare stumbles past,
-Robert Penn Warren (1905?1989), U.S. poet. Original Sin; a Short Story (l. 1?3).
Fatigue could not stave off the restlessness that had a grip on him. Nights were filled with fitful sleep since the evening two weeks past when he had his...encounter...with the devil-kin. Dreamless slumber turned to uneasy stirrings, which ended with his waking in cold sweat and anger heavy in his chest. Walking hours filled often with his thoughts wandering, shadows creeping into his consciousness and the voices began their whisperings again.
Unsettled and pressed, Lucien made his way to the inn. The biting cold felt good on his face and eased the weight in his breast. Scotch in hand, he slipped into his usual quiet, thoughts drifting in and out along with the din of voices in varied and hushed discourse. Gaze wandered aimlessly over the faces that filled the inn, familiar and otherwise.
Kitty suddenly called him out of his brooding silence, startling him out of his thoughts. "You're being suspiciously quiet, mister."
Once Lucien recovered from nearly choking on his drink, he affected a smug reply. "I am simply trying to perfect my furniture impression."
"I didn't know furniture held glasses of scotch."
"I'm being a....a....a side table. Holding up a glass of scotch."
The jibes and taunting continued light-heartedly until the barrister acquiesced and conceded the win to the Governor. The banter remained easy and with a second glass of scotch drained, Lucien's thoughts turned to returning home.
"Alysia's upstairs by the way... but I'm pretty sure she's passed out." Any and all other thoughts vanished in the instant Kitty mentioned the Priestess. "She was downing tequila and that stuff Hawk keeps in his flask. I doubt she would've made the walk. And you know she's not the type to accept help home."
His expression darkened, perplexed furrow turning to a full frown. His thoughts raced and instinctively his thumb traced the small scar nestled in his palm. "Tequila?" Kitty found the near emptied bottle and set it before the barrister. His lips pressed to a thin line at the evidence she presented. "What sort of mood was she in?"
Kitty pursed her lips as she tried to find the right word. "Distressed?"
*****
He sat in the chair, set right beside the bed where the Priestess lay sleeping, elbows resting on his knees, head held in his hands. The room was hushed and still. His thoughts were not. Somber, angry words echoed against his own somber and angry thoughts.
You haven't been there for Alysia, Lucien chided himself, as Luse's announcement rang in his ears. Tasha is gone.
You didn't know how, but you should have tried harder, he raged at himself as Luse's grief echoed against his thoughts. She did it herself. Gone! Off a (censored) cliff.
Lucien clenched his eyes closed, running his hands over his face to still the turmoil and quiet his thoughts. He reached over and brushed an errant strand of hair from Alysia's face.
Ye see, My dear priestess, mortals are so fragile. Yes, they feel more because they will never be again, but we know where your fondness of him would have done to ye had ye stayed at his side. Veighn's words came rushing back with smug accusation.
The barrister rose from the chair and pressed a tender kiss to her brow. Remorseful words, carried on a whispered breath he pressed against the touch. "What fills your dreams, Beloved?"
And locks like seaweed strung on the stinking stone,
The nightmare stumbles past,
-Robert Penn Warren (1905?1989), U.S. poet. Original Sin; a Short Story (l. 1?3).
Fatigue could not stave off the restlessness that had a grip on him. Nights were filled with fitful sleep since the evening two weeks past when he had his...encounter...with the devil-kin. Dreamless slumber turned to uneasy stirrings, which ended with his waking in cold sweat and anger heavy in his chest. Walking hours filled often with his thoughts wandering, shadows creeping into his consciousness and the voices began their whisperings again.
Unsettled and pressed, Lucien made his way to the inn. The biting cold felt good on his face and eased the weight in his breast. Scotch in hand, he slipped into his usual quiet, thoughts drifting in and out along with the din of voices in varied and hushed discourse. Gaze wandered aimlessly over the faces that filled the inn, familiar and otherwise.
Kitty suddenly called him out of his brooding silence, startling him out of his thoughts. "You're being suspiciously quiet, mister."
Once Lucien recovered from nearly choking on his drink, he affected a smug reply. "I am simply trying to perfect my furniture impression."
"I didn't know furniture held glasses of scotch."
"I'm being a....a....a side table. Holding up a glass of scotch."
The jibes and taunting continued light-heartedly until the barrister acquiesced and conceded the win to the Governor. The banter remained easy and with a second glass of scotch drained, Lucien's thoughts turned to returning home.
"Alysia's upstairs by the way... but I'm pretty sure she's passed out." Any and all other thoughts vanished in the instant Kitty mentioned the Priestess. "She was downing tequila and that stuff Hawk keeps in his flask. I doubt she would've made the walk. And you know she's not the type to accept help home."
His expression darkened, perplexed furrow turning to a full frown. His thoughts raced and instinctively his thumb traced the small scar nestled in his palm. "Tequila?" Kitty found the near emptied bottle and set it before the barrister. His lips pressed to a thin line at the evidence she presented. "What sort of mood was she in?"
Kitty pursed her lips as she tried to find the right word. "Distressed?"
*****
He sat in the chair, set right beside the bed where the Priestess lay sleeping, elbows resting on his knees, head held in his hands. The room was hushed and still. His thoughts were not. Somber, angry words echoed against his own somber and angry thoughts.
You haven't been there for Alysia, Lucien chided himself, as Luse's announcement rang in his ears. Tasha is gone.
You didn't know how, but you should have tried harder, he raged at himself as Luse's grief echoed against his thoughts. She did it herself. Gone! Off a (censored) cliff.
Lucien clenched his eyes closed, running his hands over his face to still the turmoil and quiet his thoughts. He reached over and brushed an errant strand of hair from Alysia's face.
Ye see, My dear priestess, mortals are so fragile. Yes, they feel more because they will never be again, but we know where your fondness of him would have done to ye had ye stayed at his side. Veighn's words came rushing back with smug accusation.
The barrister rose from the chair and pressed a tender kiss to her brow. Remorseful words, carried on a whispered breath he pressed against the touch. "What fills your dreams, Beloved?"