(no subject)
The windows in the room are thrown wide open, curtains drawn back, to accomodate an almost non-existent breeze. An occasional thread of cool air is felt through the oppressive, musty heat. Just enough to lend hope.
The bed, chair and nightstand are crammed into the furthest corner of the room, the carpet drawn up and neatly folded atop the pile of furniture. The floor is bare and swept clean of all debris, clean enough to eat off of.
Jake sprawls in the focal point of the room. One arm cradles his head, the fingertips of the other barely stick to the skin of his chest. Dried mud makes his hair stand out in a halo of dark brown and cornsilk blond against the dark wood of the floor. With his pants slung low around his hips and his boots half laced he's the picture of some dirty earth angel, half-asleep in the hottest part of a summer day when there's no one around who needs salvation.
His eyes are closed against the yellow light of the tiny lamp holding court on the nightstand. They do not move; at first glance it appears that he really is resting peacefully in the minimal space that he calls his own on a summer night. For even though the seasons change differently from the space of Milliways, in New York and in Keystone it is the dog days of summer, where the heat is a tangible thing in between the glittering buildings and the asphalt is liquid black that sticks to a boy's sneakers and threatens to suck him down should he pause long enough to get below the surface. And so it is summer here, now, and Jake floats somewhere in between this physical reality and the darker planes.
He is rarely ever here, anymore. Time passes around him as time tends to do - little dramas and entrances and exits revolve and the door is never shut all the way but he takes no notice. There is integration of people and ways of weaponry that he would once have taken part in, but his part in the when of the Tower's quest is all but over, and he must move on to other levels to finish his own business.
There is a waystation deep inside of the black stone tucked away in the hip pocket of his jeans - far below the surface of the reddish flaw in the center of the polished rock in a desert much like one he's seen before that has many doors. Few that he himself can open with the limitations that he has yet to shed, but some that are weak, and one that beckons above all others. It waits for him, as he's constructed it largely by himself where there was only blue sky and dust before, and it will stand for a very long time.
Gone is the sense of urgency that drove him to remove himself from his tet and other interactions. Jake has opened himself to the link that pulls at him and pulls back, establishing a temporary state of stillness. It is no longer a violin string or even elastic. Rather, it is yarn, loosely woven and deceptively strong as the fibers pull tight.
In this place of not-being, he reads many books and passes what little time there is to pass in calm reflection and peace, away from forces that drive him to ever another little death in a place of consequence to everyone but of notice to only five or so, one of whom stands watch and shares khef with him in all things. He will follow to anything that lies beyond here without hesitation.
Oy has become a sigul and part of him and he draws on the power and ability of the bumbler and gives to him, as well, so that they might be better equipped to make the transition. The closer the harder it will be for the Laughin' Dude to sunder them.
Jake reaches for one thing, and that is for the hands of the two angels that will receive him. One is aware of him and welcomes him with open arms; the other is closed and wary, but makes contact as he feels the kinship and the link of the Tower between them all. He is the one that will lead the folken to the black woman and be a focal point for his time. Jake seeks to prevent the twist of fate that ends in his destruction, and to push the other beyond his role behind enemy lines.
He picks at the fibers of worlds and draws threads out one by one, until the way is no longer shut.
The bed, chair and nightstand are crammed into the furthest corner of the room, the carpet drawn up and neatly folded atop the pile of furniture. The floor is bare and swept clean of all debris, clean enough to eat off of.
Jake sprawls in the focal point of the room. One arm cradles his head, the fingertips of the other barely stick to the skin of his chest. Dried mud makes his hair stand out in a halo of dark brown and cornsilk blond against the dark wood of the floor. With his pants slung low around his hips and his boots half laced he's the picture of some dirty earth angel, half-asleep in the hottest part of a summer day when there's no one around who needs salvation.
His eyes are closed against the yellow light of the tiny lamp holding court on the nightstand. They do not move; at first glance it appears that he really is resting peacefully in the minimal space that he calls his own on a summer night. For even though the seasons change differently from the space of Milliways, in New York and in Keystone it is the dog days of summer, where the heat is a tangible thing in between the glittering buildings and the asphalt is liquid black that sticks to a boy's sneakers and threatens to suck him down should he pause long enough to get below the surface. And so it is summer here, now, and Jake floats somewhere in between this physical reality and the darker planes.
He is rarely ever here, anymore. Time passes around him as time tends to do - little dramas and entrances and exits revolve and the door is never shut all the way but he takes no notice. There is integration of people and ways of weaponry that he would once have taken part in, but his part in the when of the Tower's quest is all but over, and he must move on to other levels to finish his own business.
There is a waystation deep inside of the black stone tucked away in the hip pocket of his jeans - far below the surface of the reddish flaw in the center of the polished rock in a desert much like one he's seen before that has many doors. Few that he himself can open with the limitations that he has yet to shed, but some that are weak, and one that beckons above all others. It waits for him, as he's constructed it largely by himself where there was only blue sky and dust before, and it will stand for a very long time.
Gone is the sense of urgency that drove him to remove himself from his tet and other interactions. Jake has opened himself to the link that pulls at him and pulls back, establishing a temporary state of stillness. It is no longer a violin string or even elastic. Rather, it is yarn, loosely woven and deceptively strong as the fibers pull tight.
In this place of not-being, he reads many books and passes what little time there is to pass in calm reflection and peace, away from forces that drive him to ever another little death in a place of consequence to everyone but of notice to only five or so, one of whom stands watch and shares khef with him in all things. He will follow to anything that lies beyond here without hesitation.
Oy has become a sigul and part of him and he draws on the power and ability of the bumbler and gives to him, as well, so that they might be better equipped to make the transition. The closer the harder it will be for the Laughin' Dude to sunder them.
Jake reaches for one thing, and that is for the hands of the two angels that will receive him. One is aware of him and welcomes him with open arms; the other is closed and wary, but makes contact as he feels the kinship and the link of the Tower between them all. He is the one that will lead the folken to the black woman and be a focal point for his time. Jake seeks to prevent the twist of fate that ends in his destruction, and to push the other beyond his role behind enemy lines.
He picks at the fibers of worlds and draws threads out one by one, until the way is no longer shut.